“Where is she?”
Twisting around from the railing at which she stood, she searched in the direction of the disturbance. The speaker, his back turned, had been addressing one of the painters on a scaffold in the dining room. His brusque inquiry was answered by a startled look and then a paintbrush pointed with hesitant slowness in the direction of the outdoor balcony.
With a muttered thanks, the tall visitor swung around and headed across the expanse of the dining room. She watched him moving purposefully toward her with a long-legged, confident gait. One glimpse of his lean, narrow-hipped figure was enough to stiffen Samantha’s spine.
Cowboys were far from rare in San Antonio, and occasionally they were the genuine article, sometimes even as sexy as legend promised. This one definitely qualified in that department, at least in appearance.
He had a mane of tousled black hair that had been crammed under a hastily removed Stetson, a dark stubble on his square jaw, stains on his faded jeans and denim shirt, and a coating of dust on a pair of well-worn boots. They were the collective result of a man who had been out wrestling steers, or at least herding them. And Samantha neither liked nor trusted any aspect of that image, and wouldn’t have liked it even if this cowboy had been one of the harmless urban variety.
She stood her ground as he strode out onto the balcony, a pair of disarming blue eyes colliding with hers. “Samantha Howard?”
The timbre of his voice was sensual, in keeping with all the rest of the cowboy package. But she didn’t care for his abrupt manner, though she tried to be pleasant. She couldn’t afford to offend someone who might turn out to be a client. “Yes, that’s right. What can I—”
She got no further. He stopped her by leaning over and slapping a small rectangle of cream-colored pasteboard onto the little wrought-iron table at her side. Samantha glanced down at his form of introduction: a business card with an emblem of a swooping golden hawk and the words Hawke Detective Agency. He was not a client.
When she looked up, the glacial blue eyes were still fastened on her. She was aware all over again that he was unshaven, sweaty and incredibly virile. Samantha had once been susceptible to that kind of masculine allure, but no more. These days she made it a habit to stay away from cowboys. Far away from them. And this one was standing much too close to her, so close that she could swear she felt the heat of his hard body.
Only, he wasn’t a cowboy, she reminded herself. Not entirely, anyway, though she’d been told he had a ranch near the Walking W. Roark Hawke. She should have guessed his identity the minute he’d asked for her.
How he’d gotten into the restaurant was no mystery. With all the doors left wide-open to vent the paint fumes, anyone could walk into the place. But his knowledge of her presence here was another matter. “How did you find me?”
A pair of broad shoulders lifted in a little shrug. “I’m a private investigator, which means it’s my business to find people. In this case, I didn’t have to search very hard. Your office manager told me you’d be here.”
Samantha reminded herself to speak to Gail about her habit of being entirely too receptive to persuasive callers. Particularly those who knew how to use a husky Texas drawl to their advantage.
“Why should you want to find me, Mr. Hawke? Didn’t my grandfather’s lawyer tell you that—”
“Oh, he told me all right. Caught me out at my ranch working on a stubborn windmill.”
Which meant his appearance was neither the result of wrestling steers nor herding them. “So, without stopping to clean up, you jump into your pickup—I’m assuming you do drive a pickup—”
“Don’t know of a rancher in Texas who doesn’t.”
“You jump into your pickup and tear down here to San Antonio to…what? What could be so urgent? Unless, of course, the lawyer didn’t make my decision clear to you.”
“Ebbersole is too thorough for that.”
There was another heavy table just behind him. He leaned his weight against it, long legs crossed at the ankle, and proceeded to measure her with those bold blue eyes. His scrutiny was both direct and speculative. Samantha found herself clutching the clipboard defensively against her breasts.
“Then why are you here?”
He was in no hurry to answer her. She watched him slowly, absently rub the brim of the Stetson against his muscular thigh. “See, I figured you and I would eventually run into each other at the hospital.”
While she was visiting her grandfather. That’s what he meant. Only, Samantha had never visited her grandfather.
“When that didn’t happen,” Roark said, “I thought for sure I’d meet you at the funeral.”
His tone was casual, nonjudgmental, but she could feel his anger. Roark Hawke was angry with her because she had failed to visit her dying grandfather, hadn’t even bothered to attend his funeral. He had probably liked and admired Joe Walker, thought him a wonderful old character and his granddaughter heartless for her neglect of him. He didn’t know the truth, and she had no intention of explaining it to him. Her anguish was none of his business.
“Now,” Roark said, “it looks like I won’t be getting to know you in Colorado, either.”
Samantha went rigid, resenting him for his anger with her. He had no right to it. “Is that why you chased down here from Purgatory? Just for the opportunity to meet me?”
“Guess so. On the other hand—” he paused to toss the Stetson into a chair “—maybe I just wanted to try to understand why a smart businesswoman would go and throw away a valuable inheritance. Kind of puzzles me.”
“And you hoped I would enlighten you. Or maybe you hoped to change my mind.”
“Can I?”
“Not a chance. I don’t want any part of my grandfather’s money. I know what that sounds like, but I have my reasons.” And Roark Hawke didn’t need to hear them, even though those thick black eyebrows of his had knit in a little frown of puzzlement.
“Looks like you and Joe shared something.”
“I don’t think so. We had nothing in common.”
There was a little smile now on his wide mouth. It was a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “How about obstinacy?”
“I like to think of it as being independent. I’ve worked very hard to be just that, and I intend to keep it that way.”
“Which you wouldn’t be if you were saddled with the responsibility of the Walking W, is that it?”
“Independence requires trust, Mr. Hawke. At least by my definition, it does. Would you say that’s what my grandfather was doing, trusting me, when his will specifies that in order to inherit, I have to go up to Colorado and play cowboy in the wilderness?”
“You’re asking the wrong guy. I like to play cowboy.”
“And this whole thing doesn’t strike you as…oh, I don’t know, a little peculiar? Slightly preposterous, maybe? A cattle drive? We’re talking about a cattle drive! Hasn’t anyone in Purgatory heard that the Chisholm Trail is now
