next one,” Skip added. “Best da—uh, darn horse-racin’ stories I ever read.”
Zach drove his fork into the pile of mashed potatoes on his plate. So that was it. This Murray woman was somehow related to A. Davis Murray, the newspaper reporter whose stories the hands devoured each week. His daughter, maybe? Or...his gut tightened...his wife? Who was she, exactly? And what was she doing sitting all pink and white at Sunday dinner at the Rocking K ranch house?
The hands couldn’t stop jabbering about A. Davis Murray’s horse-racing stories, and Miss Whoever-She-Was Murray looked mighty interested. More than interested. She was hanging on every word and her eyes... Oh, those eyes. Blue as desert lupines. Anyway, they sparkled like they’d been polished.
Zach caught Charlie’s eye and quirked one eyebrow.
“More chicken?” Charlie asked, his voice bland.
Zach shot a glance at Alice at the opposite end of the long walnut table and lowered his eyebrows into a frown. Alice looked madder than a wet cat, and that was a real puzzler. Alice never got mad about anything—not Skip’s rough table manners or Consuelo’s constant nattering about her dwindling supply of coffee beans, not even the time Charlie forgot her birthday.
But for darn sure she was mad today, and Zach figured it had something to do with pretty Miss Murray.
But Charlie always took his own sweet time about things, and this afternoon was no exception. Finally, finally, the owner of the Rocking K swallowed his last bite of strawberry shortcake, groaned like a contented heifer and rapped on his coffee cup for attention.
“Well, boys, today I’ve got a surprise for you.”
Jase’s scraggly blond head came up. “Yeah?”
“What if I told you...” Charlie paused dramatically and Alice rolled her eyes “...that Miss Murray’s first name is Alexandra.”
“What if ya did, boss?” Jase said. “Fancy name, but it don’t ring no bells for me.” Jase’s grammar stopped at the fourth grade.
“Doesn’t ring any bells,” Consuelo hissed as she circled with her coffeepot. “You set a bad example for my José.”
José ducked his head.
“I mean,” Charlie continued, “what if her name was Alexandra Davis Murray?”
“She is marry to the newspaper man?” Juan guessed.
Charlie gulped a swallow of coffee. “Nah. She is the newspaperman. Or, rather, newspaperwoman. This here lady is A. Davis Murray.”
“Ees not possible,” José protested.
Zach stared across the table at Miss Murray. Miss Alexandra Davis Murray. José was dead right, it wasn’t possible. Just what kind of game was Charlie playing?
Miss Alexandra Murray sent Zach an apologetic smile. “It’s true,” she said. “I write newspaper articles for the Chicago Times.”
Skip gaped at her. “You write about all them horse races?”
“I do.” She looked around the table at each of the ranch hands in turn until she came to Alice, who was still tight-jawed. “Aunt Alice doesn’t approve, obviously. But I like horse races. And I like writing about them.”
“Jehoshaphat,” Jase breathed.
“Madre mia,” José muttered.
Zach wanted to laugh. The thought of this soft, ruffly female tramping around a horse stable made his lips twitch.
Then they were all talking at once. During the hubbub, Charlie leaned forward and addressed Zach. “I want to talk to you,” he intoned. “In private.” He heaved his bulky frame out of the chair and led the way to his office across the hallway.
“Whiskey?” he asked when he’d shut the heavy oak door.
“No, thanks. Gotta ride out at first light.”
Charlie pushed the cut-glass decanter across his desk toward him anyway. “I’d change my mind if I was you, Zach.”
Without another word, he filled two glasses.
“Spit it out, Charlie, what’s up?”
His boss touched his glass to Zach’s and tossed back the contents. “Kinda hard to come right out and tell you, son.”
Uh-oh. Charlie only called him “son” when bad news was coming. Zach swigged down half his whiskey. “Let’s have it, Charlie. Like I said, I’ve got an early get-up tomorrow.”
“Well, Zach, it’s like this. It’s true that Alexandra is a newspaper reporter.”
“You already said that. Or somebody did. Anyway, I know that.”
“Yeah, well. See, her newspaper, the Chicago Times, wants her to do a story about a cattle drive.”
Zach slapped his empty glass onto the desk. “No.”
“I understand how you feel, Zach, but you see the answer’s gotta be yes.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
Charlie just nodded. “Yeah, it does.”
“Why?” Zach demanded. “Why does she pick this ranch? Tell her to choose another cattle drive.”
“Can’t.”
“Why can’t you?”
“Because.” He refilled his glass. “Because not only is Alexandra a newspaper reporter, she is, uh, as you’ve no doubt realized, my niece. Her mama is Alice’s sister.”
Zach said nothing for a long minute. “So?” he inquired at last.
“So,” Charlie said, “she wants to—”
“No,” Zach repeated.
Charlie reached for the whiskey decanter. “You want to keep your job, don’tcha, son?”
Damn, he hated to be threatened, especially by the man who had his financial ass under his boot heel. Zach sighed and refilled his glass.
“Well, hell, Charlie, can she ride?”
Aunt Alice settled on the edge of Alex’s bed. Her aunt hadn’t lit the lamp, but the moonlight streaming through the multipaned window illuminated her usually serene face, which at this moment looked pinched.
“Alex, you simply cannot go through with this. Surely you—”
“Stop!” Slowly Alex pushed up on one elbow. “Aunt Alice, you don’t understand. My newspaper editor came up with the idea. He is very insistent.”
“But
