him.
A shaft of pain lanced through him. It still hurt as if it was yesterday. Nolan buttoned his jacket and straightened his shoulders. He’d known coming back would be hard, that it might rip the scabs off wounds he’d thought already healed. But what he hadn’t expected were these blindsiding moments when those old hurts threatened to drive him back down on his knees.
Pull it together, he willed silently, clenching his jaw tight. He’d lived through far worse than these random memories that were all that was left of his old life. He could live through this. It was time to harden back up and get to work.
As private attorney for Rafiq Bin Saleed, Nolan was here to do a job for one of Rafiq’s companies, Samson Oil. He loved his work—particularly loved the cut and parry of entering into property negotiations on behalf of his boss and friend. The fact that doing so now brought him back to the scene of his deepest sorrow was tempered only by the fact that he also got to spend some time with his parents on their home turf. They weren’t getting any younger and his dad was already making noises about retiring. From personal experience working there, Nolan knew that his dad’s family law practice was demanding, but he couldn’t quite reconcile himself to the fact that his dad was getting ready to scale down, or even walk away, from the practice he’d started only a few years out of law school.
Again Nolan reminded himself to get back on track. Obviously he’d have to work harder. Being back home after a long absence had a way of derailing a man when he least expected it—but that wouldn’t earn him any bonuses when it came to crunch time with his boss. He looked around the area that had been christened the Courtyard. The name fit, he decided as he took in the assembly of renovated ranch buildings that housed a variety of stores and craftsmen. His research had already told him that the tenants specialized in arts and crafts with artisanal breads and cheeses also on sale, while the central area was converted into a farmer’s market most Saturday mornings.
To Nolan’s way of thinking, it was an innovative way to use an old run-down and unprofitable piece of land. So what the hell did Rafiq want with it? He knew for a fact that there was no oil to be found in the surrounding area. Hell, everyone who grew up in and around Royal knew that—which kind of raised questions as to what Samson Oil wanted the land for. So far, Rafiq’s quest to buy up property in Royal failed to make economic sense to Nolan.
Sure, he was giving owners who were still battered and struggling to pull their lives together after the tornado a chance to get away and start a new life, but what did Rafe plan to do with all the land he’d acquired?
Nolan reminded himself it wasn’t his place to ask questions but merely to carry out the brief, no matter how much of a waste of money it looked like to him. Rafiq had his reasons but he wasn’t sharing them, and it had been made clear to Nolan that it was his place to see to the acquisition of specific parcels of land—whether they were for sale or not. And that’s exactly what he was going to do.
Regrettably, however, it appeared that Winslow Properties, despite their shaky financial footing, were not open to selling this particular parcel of land. It was up to him to persuade them otherwise. He’d hoped some of the tenants would be more forthcoming about their landlord but so far, on his visits to the stores, he’d found them to be a closemouthed bunch. Maybe they were all just scared, he thought. Royal had been through a lot. No one wanted to rock the boat now.
There was one tenant he’d yet to have the opportunity to talk to. He recalled her name from his memory—Raina Patterson. From what he understood she might be closer to Mellie Winslow than some of the other tenants. Maybe Ms. Patterson could give him the angle he needed to pry this property from the Winslow family’s grip.
He began to walk toward a large red barn at the bottom of the U-shape created by the buildings. The iron roof had been proudly painted with the Texas flag. The sight of that flag never failed to tug at him; as much as he’d assimilated to his California lifestyle, he’d always be Texan.
Looking around, Nolan understood why the Winslow family had, after initial interest in Samson Oil’s offer, grown cagey at the idea of selling this little community and the land it was on. For a town that was still rebuilding, this was an area of optimism and growth. Selling out from underneath everyone was bound to create unrest and instability all over again. Not everyone here could just pick up and create a new life in a new town or state like he had.
Damn, and there he was again. Thinking of the past and of what he’d lost. His wife, his son. He should probably have sent someone else on the legal team to do this job but Rafiq had been adamant he handle it himself. He mentally shrugged. It was the price he paid for the obscenely high salary he earned—he could live with that as long as he didn’t ever have to live here again, with his memories.
* * *
Raina made a final tweak of the pine boughs and tartan ribbons she’d used to decorate the antique mantelpiece and looked around her store with a sense of pride and wonder. Her store. Priceless by name and by nature. She’d been here in the renovated red barn a month now. She still couldn’t quite believe that a year after the tornado that had leveled her original business and much of the town of Royal, she’d managed to rebuild her inventory and relocate her business rather than just fold up altogether.
It certainly hadn’t been easy, she thought as she moved through the store and let her hand drift over the highly polished oak sewing table she’d picked up at an estate sale last week—but it had been worth it.
Now all she had to do was hold on to it. A ripple of disquiet trickled down her spine. Her landlord, Mellie Winslow, had been subdued yesterday when she’d visited Raina but had said she was doing everything she could to ensure that her father’s company, Winslow Properties, didn’t sell the Courtyard.
Raina needed to know this wasn’t all going to be ripped away from her a second time. She didn’t know if she had it in her to start over again. Losing her store on Main Street, and most of her underinsured inventory of antiques, had just about sent her packing from the town she’d adopted as her own four years ago. She had to make this work, for herself and for her little boy.
No matter which way she looked at it, though, she still couldn’t understand why anyone would be interested in buying the dried-up and overused land, let alone an oil company. If only Samson Oil—who’d been buying land left, right and center around Royal—would go away and let her have the peace and security she’d been searching for her whole life. Heck, it wasn’t even as if they seemed to be doing anything with the properties they’d bought up. At the rate Samson Oil was going, Royal would become a ghost town.
“Mommy! Look!”
Raina turned and smiled at her son, Justin, or JJ as he was known, as he proudly showed off the ice cream cone her dad—his namesake—had just bought him. JJ was three going on thirteen most of the time, but today he was home from day care because he’d been miserable with a persistent cold. He was back to being the little boy who wanted his mommy and his “G’anddad” most of all. The theory had been that he’d rest on the small cot she had in her office out back, but theory had been thrown to the wind when JJ had heard his beloved granddad arrive to help Raina move some of the heavier items in the store.
Looking at JJ now, she began to wonder if she’d been conned by the little rascal all along. The little boy had protested his granddad’s departure most miserably, but he was all smiles now with an ice cream cone and the promise of a sleepover on the weekend.
“Lucky you,” she answered squatting down to JJ’s eye level. “Can I have some?”
JJ pulled the cone closer to him, distrust in his eyes. “No, Mommy. G’anddad said it mine.”
Raina
