Nitro.”
Molly picked up the fallen card and was surprised that it had nothing on it about farm implements, fertilizers or any possible outlet for her wares.
“Branchville Oil? Not what I expected. That’s a group my dad wanted nothing to do with.”
“I’m a new subcontractor. I understand they tried to buy mineral rights from Mr. McNair. Branchville is on the hunt for new oil fields in South Texas. If you still hold those rights—” he motioned one hand in a circle “—I’m prepared to offer you a fair sum to let the company sink a dozen or so small test holes. It’s lucrative income for doing nothing on your part. If I find oil, we’ll bargain for significantly more money.”
Molly tried to pass back his card, but his hands were now in his pockets.
“I’ve no interest in letting anyone search for fossil fuel on my land. The answer is no.”
The man’s jaw tensed.
“Your name is...?” Molly persisted. “There’s none on this business card.”
“Think the offer over. When you’re ready to deal, call the number at the bottom. A few pumping oil wells will earn you a lot more than slaving over crops that depend on many more variables.”
“Such as?”
“Drought. Floods. Tornadoes.”
She stared at the man for a moment before he turned and walked away.
Molly watched him weave through her field of pole beans and up the bank to the black Humvee, where he got in and quickly drove off.
Only then did Nitro settle.
Henry materialized at Molly’s elbow. “What did he want? Did he say why he didn’t come in through the main gate?”
Giving a half laugh, she showed Henry the card. “He’s a man with no name who wants to dig test wells in the middle of my crops.”
The old man took the card in a gnarled brown hand. His eyes remained on the road. “Your papa thought you should fence along the highway. Maybe it’s time.”
“Maybe.” Molly strode out of the empty field to her SUV. “Right now I have produce to deliver.”
* * *
ADAM HOLLISTER FINISHED setting up a row of clean pilsner glasses and gave the glazed oak counter a last wipe before he opened the bar. It was midweek. He didn’t expect much traffic other than the few regulars who stopped by after work.
He straightened stools on his way to put out the Open sign. Heading back, he plugged some coins into the jukebox and again stood behind the bar as Miranda Lambert belted out her latest he-done-me-wrong song.
Catching a glimpse of his image in the leaded mirror on the wall behind the liquor bottles, Adam barely recognized the man he saw. He’d let his hair, once clipped short, curl to his shoulders. He’d taken to wearing a headband to hold it out of his eyes. He should probably shave more often, he thought, stroking his prickly cheek.
He might be a bit gaunt, but this lazy job working the Country-Western bar for his old college friend in the dusty outskirts of Catarina, Texas, hadn’t diminished his six-three stature or turned the muscles that he’d honed over his years as a wildcatter flabby. His imposing size was probably why Frank had begged him to manage the bar he’d inherited from his father in the rough border town.
One look and few, if any, messed with Adam Hollister.
The door opened. Two regulars walked in and took seats at the far end of the bar. One held up two fingers and Adam pulled two dark ales from the tap. No words passed between them as he delivered their drinks.
Three old-timers Adam knew by sight wandered in next and ordered. They opted for a booth near the jukebox. They fed the machine and Willie Nelson crooned a series of his old hits.
Predictable, Adam thought, wiping at a nonexistent spill. Weeknights were dead. He hoped Frank finished renovating his dad’s old house soon, so Adam could quit this place.
The door swung open again. As was his habit, Adam looked up. He did a double-take and was more than a little shocked to recognize Dave Benson.
His former business partner strolled up to the bar and took a stool in front of him.
The last time Adam had seen Dave had been at Jenny and Lindy’s funerals.
A pain that never quite went away stabbed him anew. He’d tried running away from that memory, that pain, that guilt, for more than two years.
“You look like something the cat dragged in,” Dave said.
“Thanks. What brings you slumming? You still drink light beer?”
Benson made a rude gesture before admitting he hadn’t changed his preference. “I’ve been looking for you, good buddy. Jim Stafford’s secretary finally broke down and told me where to find you. Kevin Cole wouldn’t give me the time of day.”
Adam popped the top on a bottle and watched as Dave took a long swallow. This was the man Adam had entrusted with his thriving multimillion dollar company, Hollister-Benson Wildcatters.
Dave wore a white shirt and tie—so out of place here.
“Why are you hunting for me? Didn’t Cole, Cole and Stafford cross all the T’s to make the company transfer legal?”
“They did. Although it sticks in Kevin’s craw that you gave me the company.” Dave tore a loose piece of label from the bottle and wadded it into a tiny ball he dropped in the ashtray. “Business has been slow. Then two months ago I got a call from a guy we did a job for in Kuwait. He’s a new partner in Branchville Oil, based out of Corpus. It seems the government is offering big-buck contracts to anyone who can open up rich new in-ground veins. If you’ve watched any global news lately, you know the foreign oil markets are stagnant. Domestic is the way to make a killing.”
“I don’t watch much news.” Adam stepped away to get refills for the two at the end of the bar. “How does any of that affect me?” he asked on his return.
“Branchville had a chemist do soil studies for them last year. He thinks there could be a major field below a ranch not far from here.”
“So?” Adam leaned back against the bar sink and crossed his arms.
“Ranch owner refused to sell the mineral rights or to allow testing. He died and left the property to an equally stubborn woman. I talked to her yesterday. She’s as anti-oil as the old man was.”
“Tough for you. Sounds like you’ve hit a brick wall, Dave.”
“That’s why I thought of you. This could mean millions, and you have a sixth sense when it comes to making sure there’s oil and talking people out of it.”
“Money doesn’t mean squat to me now. I made more than I’ll ever need and I was wrong to let it dictate my life.”
“Well, even if you’re not interested in personal profit,
