Lone Star Woman Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  In the Steamy Texas Heat

  Silence engulfed her, so loud it roared in her ears. Rays of brilliant June sun pressed down hotly on her shoulders, and the vast blue sky made her feel small—a noteworthy accomplishment on the sky’s part, since very little made her, the only daughter of the powerful J. D. Strayhorn, feel small.

  A breeze gusted past and swirled her long hair around her face, pressing fine strands to her lips. She combed it back with her fingers, gathering it at her nape while she walked toward the house, still looking for the Silverado’s owner.

  Then she saw a man—a big man she didn’t recognize. He came around the corner of the house. She could tell he had seen her. He paused for a second, then came directly toward her, long legs eating up the space between them.

  He was wide shouldered but lean. He was clean and wearing a bright blue torso-hugging T-shirt that showed off muscles in his arms and shoulders. The shirt was neatly tucked in to starched and creased Wranglers. He had on cowboy boots, not worn-out, but well used. He looked like a cowboy, all right.

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  First published by Signet Eclipse, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, January 2009

  Copyright © Jeffery McClanahan, 2009

  All rights reserved

  eISBN : 978-1-440-66092-4

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  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

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  As always, this is for

  my husband, George, and my daughter, Adrienne,

  my biggest fans and strongest supporters

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I want to thank Sherry Patterson. Sherry is the owner of Triple “S” Quarter Horse & Paints, in Alba, Texas. Though she doesn’t know me from Adam, she was very generous in answering my questions, about paint horses in particular, and their history. If you go to her Web site, mysite.verizon .net/resvyjgr, you can see a picture of Harley, the black-and-white Tobiano paint stallion I used as a pattern for Jude’s horse, Patch. Harley’s full name is Heza Hollywood Harley, and he is so pretty!

  I also want to acknowledge the big, old West Texas ranches. They and their histories are the stuff Texas legend and spirit are made of.

  And a special thanks to my good friend and superb critique partner, Laura Renken.

  1

  The West Texas sun had peaked in a bright blue sky, and Judith Ann Strayhorn had already wasted more than half the day. Behind the wheel of her Dodge pickup truck, she raced along the highway on her way from Lockett to Abilene, a hundred miles away. Her mind was on Harley Beall, the state cop who had stopped her earlier for speeding. He hadn’t been sympathetic when she told him she was on a mission. He had looked at her with cold eyes, his mouth set in a grim line. He must have been having a bad day because this time, he hadn’t given her the usual warning. This time, he had given her a ticket. Damn. Now Daddy would try to badger her into going to driving school.

  Since the first time she had been allowed to drive the twenty-eight miles from the Circle C ranch to the town of Lockett all alone, Jude had found adhering to the speed limit a burden. Today, after getting the ticket, she forced herself to drive slower while she considered whether to go to court and plead not guilty to driving eighty in a sixty. The judge would probably be accommodating, given that her grandfather and father allowed him hunting privileges on the family’s rangeland. But in the county where Strayhorn wealth and influence overshadowed everything, Jude was cautious about throwing her family’s weight around. She would never deliberately put Grandpa or Daddy in an awkward position.

  Still debating the pros and cons of taking the matter to court, she drew near the old 6-0 ranch, the thing that had her rushing toward Abilene. The ranch’s cattle-guard entrance lay just ahead on the right, and at the end of the driveway, she saw a tan pickup truck. What was that about?

  She lifted her foot from the accelerator, slowed and pulled partially off the highway onto the shoulder for a closer look. Not recognizing the tan pickup, she eased all the way off the pavement and stopped. She shoved the gearshift into park and sat a few seconds, studying the trespassing rig and pondering the best way to find out who owned it.

  Her attention veered from the pickup to the old two-story house. Of Victorian style, rising from the middle of a sun-drenched Texas panhandle pasture, it couldn’t have looked more out of place. It sat at the end of a quarter mile of caliche driveway, its fancy carved wood trim and much of its clapboard siding bare of paint and weathered to gray. The slatted shutters that had once framed two of the front windows in white h
ad been missing for a while now.

  Her eyes traveled to a two-story barn standing five hundred feet behind the house, canting to the east in sad shabbiness. In a coil the size of a car, rusted barbed wire leaned against the barn’s east wall. Other outbuildings of both metal and wood in various stages of dilapidation baked in the brittle early-afternoon sun.

  As far as Jude was concerned, the buildings were an inconsequential part of Marjorie Wallace’s estate. The valuable part was the fifteen sections of land the buildings sat on—9,600 acres of prime, rolling bluestem grassland that had been ungrazed for months. Enough land to run at least two hundred head of cows and calves. The very thought was enough to make her heart sing.

  Jude wanted to own that 6-0 rangeland more than she had ever wanted to own anything. And she had the wherewithal to buy it. She hadn’t yet made an offer, but without her father and grandfather knowing it, she had already started the wheels rolling to take the money from her trust fund. She had an appointment this afternoon to meet with the banker in Abilene to discuss it further and sign documents. No doubt when Daddy and Grandpa learned what she was up to, another family explosion would occur.

  She could hear Daddy now: Jude, why don’t you spend your energy on finding a husband?

  And Grandpa: Why, Judith Ann, that trust fund is for your future and the future of the children you should be concentrating on having.

  And the discussion wouldn’t end there. Hadn’t they already tried to marry her off twice?

  But at the moment, she couldn’t think about a hypothetical. The unfamiliar pickup had her curiosity jumping up and down. She shifted out of park, made a right turn and jostled and bumped up the neglected driveway until she came to a stop behind the newer-model Chevy Silverado. Its bed was filled with household furnishings: a mattress set, a cabinet-like thing that looked to be a dresser, some chairs and a table. Having been here several times, she knew the house and all the outbuildings had hasps and padlocks on the doors. Had the Silverado’s owner broken in and taken that furniture from inside the house?

  From where she sat, she couldn’t see whether the lock on the front door had been removed. A sudden jolt of anxiety hit her stomach. She thought of her cell phone and her cousin Jake Strayhorn, who was the Willard County sheriff. She thought of her pistol, which she knew how to use and had a permit to carry. It was locked in Daddy’s gun cabinet at home. Damn.

  She pulled closer to the Silverado’s back bumper and angled across the driveway’s two tracks. The pickup could get out, but only with some skillful maneuvering. Without killing her engine, she continued to study the unfamiliar vehicle. It was clean and neatly kept. No dents, good tires. Not a rig she would associate with a burglar. The license plate holder said, COWTOWN CHEVROLET. The only city in Texas known as “Cowtown” was Fort Worth. Jude’s ever-present curiosity began to outweigh her anxiety.

  Jake would be able to find the pickup owner’s name easily enough. His office could log in to computer networks that knew everything about everyone. She pulled a small spiral notebook from behind the sun visor and jotted down the plate number. As she returned the notebook to its place, she glanced around but saw no one. She switched off the motor and slid out, her boot heels cushioned by clumps of assorted weeds that had overtaken the driveway.

  Silence engulfed her, so loud it roared in her ears. Rays of brilliant June sun pressed down hotly on her shoulders, and the vast blue sky made her feel small—a noteworthy accomplishment on the sky’s part, since very little made her, the only daughter of the powerful J. D. Strayhorn, feel small.

  A breeze gusted past and swirled her long hair around her face, pressing fine strands to her lips. She combed it back with her fingers, gathering it at her nape while she walked toward the house, still looking for the Silverado’s owner.

  Then she saw a man—a big man she didn’t recognize. He came around the corner of the house. She could tell he had seen her. He paused for a second, then came directly toward her, long legs eating up the space between them. A squiggle of anxiety zoomed through her stomach again. He was at least as tall as Daddy, who was over six feet. He was wide shouldered but lean. He was clean and wearing a bright blue torso-hugging T-shirt that showed off muscles in his arms and shoulders. The shirt was neatly tucked in to starched and creased Wranglers. He had on cowboy boots, not worn-out, but well used. He looked like a cowboy, all right, but not a cowhand. Having spent her entire life around both, she knew the difference. Now she was sure he was no burglar.

  But what was he? A shot of panic surged for a reason other than concern for her personal safety. Good Lord, could he be a buyer for this place? She summoned the boldness for which she was notorious. “Hey,” she called to him.

  His step didn’t falter as he continued walking toward her. “Something I can do for you?” His voice was deep, but soft.

  As he neared, she strained to see his eyes, but they were hidden in the shadow of a purple ball cap. It had the TCU logo, embroidered rather than stamped, so it was one of the better-quality caps. TCU. Humph. She no longer held so much as a shred of fear. TCU, Texas Christian University, was a sissy school in Fort Worth. Like her father, Jude Strayhorn was a proud graduate of the only college in Texas—or the whole United States, really—that mattered: Texas A&M. “This is private property,” she said.

  “I know,” he replied almost absently, as he continued to look around.

  “Then what are you doing here?” She had to raise her chin to look him in the eye. And those eyes, sitting above wide cheekbones and a lean jaw were as blue as the Texas sky. He didn’t answer her question, but she felt the intensity of his head-to-toe assessment, as if he were seeing through her clothes, all the way to her skin. She had been observed by men before, was used to not reacting. What she wasn’t used to was the electricity in the air between them and the strange flutter agitating inside her midsection. She stood there sweating in the heat, waiting for him to explain himself.

  His gaze moved to her pickup, parked across the driveway, blatantly displaying her intent. He looked back at her, his jaw and body taut. “What are you doing here?” His tone would have frozen water on a July day.

  “I’m a neighbor from up the road.”

  “That doesn’t tell me why you parked crossways and blocked my exit. Who the hell do you think you are?”

  She flinched at his sharp tone, but didn’t back down. “I stopped by, being neighborly. But I’ll damn sure get out of your way. If you don’t feel like telling me who you are, I guess you can tell the sheriff.” She turned and willed herself to saunter toward her pickup as if she hadn’t a concern in the world, but her heartbeat drummed in her ears. “He’s my cousin,” she added over her shoulder.

  “Hold on,” he called. She stopped, turned back and faced him.

  He came to where she stood, the corners of his mouth tipping into a hint of a smile that fell somewhere between friendly and smirky. Whatever its meaning, it sent another odd reaction through her stomach. He stuck out his right hand. “Brady Fallon.”

  He said the name as if it should mean something to her, but she couldn’t place it. She had a feeling she had seen him before, but she couldn’t think where. Still, she gave him her hand. His big, rough hand engulfed hers in a strong, palm-touching grip. Startled by another odd little disturbance darting through her, she pulled her hand away and stuffed it into the back pocket of her jeans. “So, uh, I don’t think I’ve seen you around here.”

  “Haven’t been around here . . . lately.”

  Lately? Who was he? Was he kin to someone local? She thought she knew every living being in Willard County, all 1,653 of them.

  She had to know what he was up to. Striving for nonchalance, she said, “The, um, owner of this place passed away recently. Are you looking to buy it?”

  A faraway look came into his eyes and he glanced back over his shoulder toward the outbuildings. She wished she could read minds. His attention returned to her, his eyes intent on her face. “Nope,” he said.

>   “You’re leasing?” The question was no sooner out of her mouth than she thought she knew the answer. “No, you’re a bird hunter.” By the hundreds, game-bird hunters ventured from the Fort Worth/Dallas metroplex to shoot the abundant quail and dove on the West Texas high plains. Fewer came to Willard County than to the surrounding counties because Strayhorn Corp owned more than half of the rangeland and Daddy and Grandpa gave only a chosen few permission to hunt. Years back they had been more generous in allowing hunting, but after too many unfortunate incidents with livestock and fences, they substantially cut back hunting by outsiders.

  The stranger chuckled, a deep, friendly sound. He flashed a boyish grin loaded with charm. “I never met a bird that deserved killing.”

  She couldn’t keep from staring at his wide mouth and his even white teeth. “Actually, me neither. Personally, I don’t like the taste of game birds. These dudes who come out here and use hunting as an excuse to get drunk and show off the shotgun they got for Christmas, it’s a wonder they all don’t shoot each other.”

  He shifted to a cock-kneed stance and propped his hands on his hips. “You didn’t say your name.”

  “Jude Strayhorn. I live on the place that butts up to this one.”

  His chin lifted and his brow arched. “Ahh.” His annoyance seemed to dissipate, as if he knew who she was.

  But then, who in West Texas didn’t know or hadn’t heard—good or bad—of the Strayhorns? “So, what are you doing here?”

  Those laser blue eyes fixed another steady look on her. Though the temperature had to be above ninety, she thought of icicles. Okay, so he didn’t want to discuss it. Maybe she was being nosy. And maybe a little pushy.

  A long pause. “This place belonged to my aunt Margie and uncle Harry.” He looked down and appeared to study his boots. “Now I guess it belongs to me.”