to find was shocking news even for a Peyton Place like Mission Creek. The note attached to the infant, with the only decipherable words being “this is your baby girl,” had everyone in town laying bets as to which one of the golfing foursome had sired the abandoned child and clucking their tongues over the unidentified mother’s lack of maternal instincts.
Murder? Corruption? An abandoned baby?
This wasn’t the Mission Creek Clay Martin remembered from his youth, and it certainly wasn’t the peaceful environment he’d sought when, disillusioned with life, he’d ended his military career early, accepted a job as a Texas Ranger and made the long trek back to Texas. But changed or not, Mission Creek was home, and Clay was determined to do his part in bringing law and order back to the town.
At the moment, though, he was officially off duty and nursing a beer at the bar in the Lone Star Country Club’s Men’s Grill. The building itself was a temporary structure built to replace the original Men’s Grill destroyed by a bomb several months prior. In spite of its stopgap status, the bar still managed to reflect the discriminating tastes of the club’s wealthy members.
Unfortunately Clay wasn’t one of them.
By all rights, he knew he could be arrested for trespassing. Only card-carrying, dues-paying members were allowed admittance to the prestigious country club’s facilities, and Clay didn’t have the pedigree or the portfolio to even apply—two small details he didn’t see changing any time in the foreseeable future.
The rich get richer, while the poor keep digging themselves deeper and deeper into debt, he thought with more than a little resentment. That was one thing about Mission Creek that hadn’t changed over the years.
The sharp clack of pool balls being hit carried from an adjoining room, followed by a loud whoop, grabbing Clay’s attention. The Billiard Room, he thought with a huff of disgust as his gaze settled on the stained-glass sign hanging above the arched opening. Why the hell couldn’t they call it what it was, instead of slapping a fancy, five-dollar name on it? It was a pool hall, the same as hundreds of other smoke-filled rooms he’d frequented around the world, where men hung out, drinking beer and shooting eight-ball with their buddies.
But those other pool halls hadn’t been outfitted with leather chairs, heavy brass light fixtures and etched glass, he reminded himself as he gave the room a cursory glance.
With a woeful shake of his head, he drained his beer, then lifted a finger, signaling the bartender to bring him another. Within seconds a pilsner of foaming beer was sitting in front of him. Clay chuckled as the bartender moved away.
Member or not, it seemed when a Texas Ranger asked for something, he got it. Fast.
With the exception of the money this particular Texas Ranger needed to hold on to his family’s ranch.
His amusement faded at the reminder of his current financial woes. Curling his fingers around the glass, he scowled at the golden liquid, wondering how in hell he was going to come up with the money he needed to turn his family’s ranch into a profitable business. Not on a Ranger’s salary, that was for sure.
If he’d been smart, he told himself, he’d have socked away more of the money he’d earned while serving in the Special Forces branch of the army. But, no, he’d foolishly squandered his pay trying to impress Celine Simone, a wealthy heiress, whom he’d even more foolishly made the mistake of falling in love with.
“Women,” he muttered under his breath. “Nothin’ but trouble.”
“I’ll drink to that.”
Clay glanced over to find Ford Carson sliding onto the stool next to his, his glass lifted in a silent toast of agreement. Clay tapped his glass against Ford’s. “You got women trouble, Mr. Carson?”
Frowning, Ford plucked the skewered olive from his drink and tossed it aside. “Daughter trouble, to be exact.”
Clay didn’t have to ask which of Carson’s twin daughters was causing him problems. Fiona’s escapades were known all over town. “And what has Fiona done this time?”
Ford’s face, already florid, flushed an unhealthier red. “The damn girl went out and bought herself a brand-spanking-new Mercedes. Didn’t even ask my permission. Just sashayed over to the dealership, signed a check on my account and drove the blamed car right off the lot!” Dragging a hand through his thick shock of white hair, he shook his head wearily. “I tell you that girl is going to be the death of me. I don’t know what the hell to do with her anymore.”
Ordinarily Clay would have let the comment pass without comment, but the thought of anyone frittering away tens of thousands of dollars when he was so desperately in need of money infuriated the hell out of him. “If she were my daughter, I’d cut off her access to my bank accounts, then march her butt right back down to that dealership and make her return the car.”
Ford angled his head to peer at Clay. “You would?”
Clay gave his chin a decisive jerk. “Damn straight. What she did was totally irresponsible and disrespectful of the privileges you’ve obviously allowed her.”
“And you think that would teach her a lesson?”
Clay lifted a shoulder. “Maybe. Maybe not. Fiona’s what? Twenty-seven?” At Ford’s nod, he shook his head. “Pardon me for saying so, Mr. Carson, but Fiona’s had things her way for so long it may take more than a slap on the hand to bring her around.”
Ford’s frown deepened. “You’re probably right. A headstrong young woman like Fiona won’t break easily.”
The two stared at their drinks, both silent as they contemplated their individual problems. After a moment Ford glanced Clay’s way. “I haven’t seen your sister, Joanna, around town lately. She hasn’t moved, has she?”
Smiling, Clay shook his head. “No, sir. She’s in Europe for the summer, touring with a group of her French students.”
“Glad to hear it. I’d hate for Mission Creek to lose such a fine teacher.”
“No worse than I’d hate losing my sister,” Clay replied. “She’s only been gone a week and I already miss her.”
Ford nodded slowly, then glanced Clay’s way again. “Didn’t I hear you bought back your family’s ranch?”
“Yeah,” Clay replied. “Though keeping it might present a problem.”
“How so?”
Embarrassed to admit to his strapped financial condition, especially to a man as wealthy and successful as Ford Carson, Clay kept his gaze on his beer. “Unless I can figure out a way to raise the cash to make the improvements needed to turn the place into a profitable business again, I stand to lose it.”
“I wouldn’t toss in my cards just yet,” Carson said.
Feeling the intensity of the man’s gaze, Clay glanced up to find Ford studying his reflection in the mirror behind the bar.
“What if I were to give you the money you needed to get started?” Ford suggested.
“Give me the money?” Clay repeated.
“Well, not give,” Ford amended. “A little
