Texas Heat. Barbara McCauley

      Prologue

      The lawyer’s office smelled of money. Old money. Leather armchairs, dark polished woods, plush hunter green carpet. A bronze statue of a horse and rider, silhouetted by the late-afternoon sun, adorned a tall marble stand and stared solemnly out the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking downtown Midland. Silence dominated the room, except for the soft ticktock of the grandfather clock and a woman’s muffled whimpering.

      Four chairs faced the lawyer’s desk. Jake Stone sat in the first, his sister, Jessica, beside him and on the end Myrna Stone, their stepmother. The fourth chair sat conspicuously empty.

      Norman Woodard, the lawyer, ran a manicured hand over the silver streak of hair above his left ear, then glanced at the clock. “Mr. Stone, it’s already twenty minutes past the hour. We really can’t—”

      “We wait.”

      “But—”

      Jake lifted his gaze sharply to the man. “I said, we wait.”

      Woodard’s lips tightened, but he said nothing.

      Jessica laid a hand over Jake’s and he felt the tension slowly ease from his shoulders. His baby sister was no baby anymore, he realized with a note of regret. He could still clearly remember twenty-six years ago, the day his parents had brought her home from the hospital. He’d been only eight at the time, and all he’d seen sticking out of that pink blanket were two huge blue eyes and a crop of shining black hair.

      The memory of that day and the happiness in his parents’ eyes brought reality crashing back down. They were both gone. His mother twelve years ago, now J.T. Jake closed his fingers tightly around his sister’s. At least he still had Jessie. Jessie and... He stared at the empty chair.

      “Mr. Stone,” the lawyer tried again, “your brother was given sufficient notice of the day and time of this meeting. I suggest we—”

      Tipping back his Stetson, Jake straightened in his chair, knowing that his height had intimidated more than one man. “I just buried my father two days ago, then drove three hours for this meeting. I have two hundred head of cattle to feed, fence to ride and a hay trailer with a flat tire. If I can wait—” he settled back in his chair “—then so can you.”

      “Mr. Woodard.” Jessica leaned forward, and Jake noticed the weary tone in her voice. “These past few days have been difficult, and I’m afraid we’re all a little tired. I’m sure my brother will be here any minute.”

      “Maybe Mr. Woodard is right,” Myrna said, worrying the handkerchief in her hands. “After all, it is getting late.”

      Jake turned to his stepmother. A former Miss Houston, she still looked pretty good at fifty-two. Her blue suit hadn’t a wrinkle, nor was one bottle-red hair out of place. Not even a smudge of mascara, though she’d been sniffling and dabbing at her eyes for the past forty-five minutes.

      “Maybe Mr. Woodard here,” Jake said, narrowing his eyes, “doesn’t know that flying in from South America isn’t exactly a trip to the corner store. And maybe if you hadn’t insisted on a funeral that took less time than picking up hamburgers at a drive-through, my brother might have made his father’s burial, too.”

      Myrna’s jaw went tight at the sarcasm, but she said nothing, just turned away and stared blankly out the window. For once, Jake thought, the woman knew when to quit.

      The clock chimed the half hour.

      They waited.

      He’d show up. Jake knew he would. It didn’t matter that Jared had been gone for three years. It didn’t even matter that he hadn’t been able to make it to the funeral. All that mattered was that when Jake had finally managed to get a hold of his brother in Venezuela, Jared had said he’d be here. And if it meant camping out in this stuffy lawyer’s office until he showed up, then by God, that was what they’d do.

      When the three-quarter hour chimed, Mr. Woodard stood. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said curtly, tugging on the jacket of his precision-cut, tailor-made suit, “I’ll go see about having something brought in. Some sandwiches, perhaps, and some drinks—”

      “Make mine a rare roast beef” came a deep voice from the back of the room, “and a tall cold beer.”

      All heads jerked around at the unexpected order. Jared Stone stood in the doorway, his hand on the knob. His denim jacket was worn, but clean, his thick black hair ruffled as if he’d been in a windstorm. A half smile deepened the creases beside his mouth and his eyes—Stone trademark blue—widened with pleasure as he stared at a brother and sister he hadn’t seen in three years.

      Jessica jumped up from her seat and flew at him, pouncing into his arms as she had when she was a child. Laughing, he lifted her, then spun her around. Jake watched, feeling a strange swelling in his chest as he walked toward his brother. He waited for Jared to put Jessica down before he stuck out his hand.

      Jared stared at Jake’s hand and his smile slowly faded. The brothers’ eyes met, held for one long moment, then, not knowing who moved first and not caring, slapped their arms around each other in a fierce hug.

      Jessica

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