CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
STELLA JANE SCOUT slowly descended the stairs. She was going over the numbers again in her head, figuring on potential donors, and almost ran into her father who appeared at the bottom just as she reached it.
“Whoa there, Pretty! Raring to go to work?” He steadied himself against the door frame that led from the foot of the stairs into the dining room, which was rarely used. “I was just about to call you.”
“Mornin’, Pops.” She kissed his cheek. “What’s for breakfast?”
“Bacon and eggs. You need your protein this morning. You know, bacon and eggs stick with you.”
Stella suppressed a chuckle as she followed him into the kitchen. He was always cooking up things he thought would “stick with” her, with no regard whatsoever to their fat and cholesterol content.
She sat down at the breakfast table where they ate most meals, and laid her napkin across her lap. Buster poured coffee into the cup he’d already doctored with sugar and milk. As she sipped its rich smoothness, he set a plate in front of her with two fried eggs, three strips of bacon and a piece of whole wheat toast. Then, turning to the sound of a scratching noise on the porch, he went to the back door and let in two whirling dervishes of black-and-white.
“Mugsy! Mitzi!” Stella reached down to pet the Boston terriers that stood with their paws on her thigh. Their wiggling and wagging resulted in her napkin falling to the floor. Buster picked it up for her.
“Here you go, guys.” They followed Buster to a mat that held a stainless steel bowl full of water beside the refrigerator. Buster set down two bowls with equal portions of bacon and eggs in each one and the dogs started chowing down. Next, he made his own plate and sat down at the table across from Stella, slathering his toast in butter.
“What’s on your agenda today?”
“I’m going to meet with that feller who keeps pestering me about buying the north forty.” Buster focused his eyes intently on his toast.
“What? I thought you discontinued that ad.”
“I did, too, but apparently it still comes up on that stinkin’ internet. “Least that’s where he said he got our information.”
“Well, why didn’t you just tell him it’s not for sale?” The heat rose in her neck.
“I want to hear what he has to say. He’s a polo player, so he’s bound to have money, and if he wants that forty acres bad enough, well, it might help out with your new venture.”
Stella snorted. “A polo player? From Texas?” She rolled her eyes. “Pops, I don’t need help. Not that way, anyway. I know we’re strapped and I know it’s my fault—”
“Now, you just wait right there a minute. Our financial troubles are not your fault.” He reached across the table for her hand. “Don’t you ever say it’s your fault, Pretty.”
“Well, I am the one who persuaded you to quit the rodeo after Mom died, but I won’t apologize for it. You’re the only parent I’ve got left. We can blame it on the economy or whatever, but what it comes down to is that my riding school has drained you financially.”
Buster couldn’t argue with that.
“But I’m about to make that up to you. Just a little more time, a few more donors, and we’ll be up and running.” Stella placed her hand over his. The gnarled knuckles were rough beneath her palm. “You know I’m not in this to get rich, by any means. But I do hope we’ll be solvent again. The last thing I want is for you to have to sell part of this place. It’s our last connection to Moma.”
Stella saw a muscle twitch in her father’s jaw, even though it was covered with a shaggy salt-and-pepper beard. His bushy eyebrows furrowed into a near-scowl.
“Well, I’ll keep that under consideration, but I’m not canceling the meeting. He’ll be here in a few minutes.”
Buster rose, taking his plate to the sink. He tucked his shirt into his jeans as he wobbled bowlegged across the kitchen and back through the dining room. He paused in the foyer to grab his workaday Panama hat off the rack. Then he turned around and winked at her.
“Stubborn ox!” Stella called, clearing the rest of the table.
* * *
JOINER TEMPLE ROLLED OVER in the four-poster king-size bed and grabbed his phone off the rusted oil barrel Gillian, his brother Hunt’s wife, had rescued from a junkyard and reimagined as a nightstand for one of the rooms in her five-star resort, Temple Territory. Hunt and Gillian had offered him the “Mason-Dixon” suite, named after his notorious grandfather. They insisted on treating him to the lap of luxury in the thirty-eight-room mansion that was the heart of the resort until he found a place of his own to rent in Kilgore.
That task had been harder than he hoped it would be, but he had a meeting today with an old rodeo guy named Buster Scout. If Joiner could get Buster to agree to sell part of his 450-acre ranch for an affordable price, it might be the best option yet for Joiner to start over.
The clock on his phone read 7:00 a.m. He’d better get a move on or he was going to be late.
Joiner jumped out of bed and showered quickly in the shale-tiled shower Gillian had designed. He pulled on jeans, a clean white T-shirt and ran a brush through his dark, wavy hair. Forgoing a shave, which would take too long, he hoped a little stubble wouldn’t make a bad impression with Buster. Then he stepped into his favorite Justin boots, picked up his Stetson and, locking the door behind him, hurried down the hall and out the door.
His brother Hunt was coming up the steps of the mansion as Joiner was going down.
“Morning, bro!” Hunt flashed him the smile that had made him famous as the Cowboy Chef. “Did you have breakfast?”
“No time. I’ve got to go see about that forty acres. Supposed to be there at eight o’clock.”
“I can have someone feed Pistol for you.”
“I’ve got it.” Joiner reached out his fist and Hunt bumped it with his. “See you later.”
Joiner crossed the lawn, passing the guesthouse where Hunt and Gillian were staying while their new lodge, which would be their personal home, was under construction by the lake at the rear of the property. He headed to the lavishly remodeled barn where Pistol was boarded. Pistol looked up immediately when Joiner entered, as if he’d been waiting for him.
Man, he loved this horse. A carbon-black Argentine Thoroughbred, Pistol was the one dream Joiner had not left behind with the rest of his polo career. He filled a bucket with oats and brushed the horse till his coat shone in the soft morning light that filtered through the barn windows.
“I’ve got to go, but when I get back we’ll go for a ride.”
Pistol nuzzled him and Joiner rubbed the white star that blazed across the horse’s forehead. “Hopefully I’ll have us both a place where we can finally settle down.” Although, admittedly, Joiner didn’t know if he’d ever be happy settling down...
* * *
THE SILVER TRUCK kicked up so much dust that Buster could see it coming more than a mile down the driveway. He finished