to pay.
They’d parked in the farthest corner of the parking lot outside the range of the security cameras. She knew the spot was safe, because she’d checked the surveillance tapes herself. As it was after hours, few cars were left in the lot, and darkness added another layer of cover.
She slid the wolf man a file and gave him a hard stare. “I hired you because I was told you’re the best. Naturally, discretion is of utmost importance. This can’t be traced back to me or my husband.”
“Naturally,” he deadpanned. He reached into his front shirt pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Tapping one out, he flicked a silver lighter and lit his smoke. The tip glowed red like an evil eye in the dark.
She balled her hands in her lap, watching him uneasily as he flipped through the file. “I’ll want proof when the job is complete.”
Blowing smoke after her, he sent her a snide look, as if her request was beneath him. “I’ll finish the job.”
“Be sure you do. You don’t get the last of your fee until I know that she’s paid for what she did to my son.”
He slapped the file shut and curled his lip in a sneer that revealed a lupine-like incisor. “Oh, she’ll pay. Your son was my friend, my partner in a deal that went south when he died. I lost a small fortune. This job is personal. I won’t rest until his death is avenged and that backstabbing bitch is dead.”
“In one hundred feet, turn right onto access road,” the stilted voice of the rental car’s GPS intoned.
With a deep breath for courage, Tracy McCain signaled the turn. She noted with interest that the car ahead of her on the isolated stretch of rural Oklahoma highway also made a right onto the side road leading to the sprawling ranch of cattleman John “Big J” Colton.
More interesting were the three cars that followed her onto the long driveway, including a television news van complete with a satellite dish on top. What the heck was going on at the Lucky C ranch today?
The iron gates, normally requiring someone at the main house to buzz you in, stood agape, allowing the parade of cars to continue up to the house unimpeded. As Tracy passed through the stone-walled entry, she noticed the Lucky C logo, an upright, good-luck horseshoe with a C inside, atop the posts on either side of the iron gate. She hoped the logo boded well for her. She could use a bit of good luck today for her mission. From what her cousin had told her, the Coltons were a stubborn bunch, hard-nosed and highly protective of their family and their business.
Tracy wiped her sweaty palms on the legs of her slacks as the string of vehicles rolled closer to the ranch buildings, past acre upon acre of prime grazing fields. She looked for a place to pull off and park as they approached the main house, but, trapped between the SUV in front of her and the news van behind her, she had no real choice but to pull right up the drive to the front door of the Colton mansion. Laura had told her the Coltons were wealthy, but the glorious estate before her sent a fresh roll of trepidation through her. Holy cow—or maybe she should say holy cowboy—the place was big...and beautiful.
She knew how David must have felt going up against Goliath. What were the odds that she, an unemployed widow, a down-on-her-luck nobody with only a tenuous right to the claim she wanted to stake, could hold sway with the mighty Coltons?
She glanced at the snapshot of a small boy that she’d laid on the passenger seat, and her spirits lifted. Seth was worth the effort. And she owed Laura. Big time.
When the line of cars stopped on the cobbled drive in front of the stone-facade mansion, a man in a white button-down shirt and black pants yanked open her driver-side door.
Tracy gasped and shrank away as he stuck a hand toward her. “Wh-what are you doing?”
He flashed a lopsided grin. “Offering you a hand out. We cowboys are raised to be helpful to ladies.”
“Oh...thanks, but no.” She glanced around at the manicured lawn. “Where should I park?”
“You don’t.”
She jerked a startled look back to the dark-haired man, who either had a head start on his summer tan or an enviable heritage lending him his copper-toned skin. “Pardon?”
Had she been recognized as an interloper? Was she being dismissed even without getting to state her case?
The cowboy chuckled and wiggled his fingers, indicating she should get out of the car. “Parking is my job today. But don’t worry. I drive cars as well as I drive cattle. I won’t scratch it.”
A car horn blasted behind her, and another man in a white shirt leaned out of a vehicle behind her and shouted, “Come on, Daniel. Schmooze the ladies on your own time, man. You’re holding up the line!”
The cowboy-valet at her door smiled at his cohort and deliberately scratched his temple with his middle finger. Offering his hand to her again, he said, “Ma’am.”
With a nervous grin, she grabbed her purse off the floor and took his callused hand to slip out of the rental car. As the valet—Daniel, the other man had called him—climbed behind the wheel, she remembered her messenger bag. “Wait! I need that.”
She pointed past him to the passenger seat. But instead of the bag, he zeroed in on her snapshot. He picked up the photo with a curious frown. “Hey, isn’t this—?”
She snatched the picture, drawing a deeper scowl from him. “My bag. Please.”
Daniel retrieved the satchel and handed it to her, along with a small piece of paper. “Write your tag number on this and give it to whoever’s manning the front door when you’re ready to leave. Someone will bring your car around.”
With that, he closed the door and sped away.
“But I don’t know—” She quickly shifted her attention to the rental car’s license plate and caught the first few digits before her valet-cowboy turned out of the circular drive and headed toward the back of the property. As she crossed the driveway, headed for the front door, she stuck the photo in her purse, then fumbled for a pen to write the plate numbers down.
Tracy joined the stylishly dressed reporter and bored-looking cameraman from the news station, climbing the decorative concrete steps to the front door. The reporter knocked on the dark wood door inset with an ornate glass window. While they waited for an answer, Tracy practiced in her head what she would say when she confronted her cousin’s ex. Honesty was a good policy, but how open would the Coltons be to her proposal, if they knew her past? She didn’t have long to mull over the question, as the door was answered quickly by an effusive older woman with a dark bob.
“Veronica Hamm, KRQY News,” the reporter said, offering her hand.
“Of course! I’d know that pretty face anywhere!” the woman at the door gushed, ignoring the proffered hand and swooping in for a girlie hug and air kisses on each cheek. “Come in, come in! I’m Abra Colton. Thank you for coming.”
Tracy’s stomach flip-flopped. Abra Colton. Seth’s grandmother. As matriarch of the Colton clan, Abra could be key to whether Tracy was accepted by the family or not.
Their hostess waved
