An old-fashioned bell chimed as Natalie Baker shoved the door open at Firestone Grain and Feed. Oh, the amount of dirt on that thing—she hoped it hadn’t ruined her expensive skirt. Except for the pine boughs and holly that hung in the windows, the entire store looked like it had been rolled through a pasture. She was a long way from downtown Denver.
“Help you?” a man wearing suspenders over a flannel shirt asked from behind the counter. His eyes widened as he took in her five-inch heels and her legs. By the time his gaze had worked its way back up to her perfectly contoured face and professional blow-out, his mouth had flopped open, too. The only thing missing was a stick of grass hanging out of his lips.
“Hello,” Natalie said in her best television voice. “I could use a little help.”
“You lost?” He looked her over again and she had to wonder if he’d ever had a woman in heels in this feed store before. God knew she wouldn’t be here if there were any other option. “You look lost. I can get you back to Denver. Take a left out of the parking lot and—”
She managed an innocent blush and then looked up at him through her lashes. His eyebrows rose. Excellent. He was a malleable kind of man.
“Actually,” she began, practically purring, “I’m looking for someone. I was hoping you might know him?”
The old man’s chest puffed up with pride. Perfect.
She was looking for someone—that part was the truth. Her information was that Isabel Santino had married a local rancher by the name of Patrick Wesley in the small ranching town of Firestone, Colorado. It had taken Natalie months to track down the marriage certificate in the county courthouses.
That’s how long it had been since the Beaumont bastards had revealed themselves to the public, back in September. Zeb Richards was the oldest of Hardwick Beaumont’s illegitimate children. Through a great deal of underhanded dealings that were rumored to be possibly illegal and definitely unethical, he had taken control of the Beaumont Brewery. When Richards had done so, he had had another one of Hardwick’s bastard sons, Daniel Lee, standing next to him. The two brothers now ran the brewery and, according to their last quarterly statement, their market share was up eight percent.
But there was more to the story than that. Richards had slipped up at a press conference when Natalie had flashed her very best smile at him and he had admitted that there was a third bastard out there. She hadn’t been able to get any more information out of him, but that had been enough.
The Beaumont bastards were big, big news. Natalie’s show, A Good Morning with Natalie Baker, had been milking the Beaumont family drama for months. It’d been easy, for a while. Zeb Richards had taken over the brewery and then had gotten the brewmaster pregnant. Apparently, he had fallen in love with Casey Johnson—or, at least, they were putting on an exceptionally good public face. They had mostly been seen at the playoffs and the World Series—and at their wedding, of course. That alone had fueled a twelve-percent ratings jump throughout the fall.
But it was December now. Richards and his new wife were old news and would stay that way until she had her baby. That was a good six months off and Natalie’s ratings couldn’t coast that long.
She had tried to dig into Daniel Lee’s past, but that had proved nearly impossible. It was as if he’d been erased from the public system. No one knew anything about him other than he’d started running political campaigns a few years ago, but even then, she couldn’t find anything. He was reputed to play hard and dirty—just like a Beaumont, she figured—but any question Natalie had asked about Lee had been met with a blank stare and a shrug.
That left her with one option and one option only: the mysterious third Beaumont bastard. Which presented its own special set of challenges because no one knew anything about the man except that he existed.
Natalie needed this story because she needed her show. Without it, what did she have?
“Well now, I know just about everyone around these parts. I’m sure I can help you out,” the old man said. “Who are you looking for?”
“I believe his name is Carlos Julián Santino? He also might go by Wesley.” She batted her eyelashes at the old man. “Do you know where I might be able to find him?”
The old man’s grin cracked and he looked significantly less welcoming. “Who?” he asked after a long moment.
That long moment told her things. Specifically, it told her that this feed store owner knew exactly who she was talking about—but he wasn’t about to give it away. Interesting. She was getting closer.
“His mother’s name was Isabel? She might go by Isabella.”
“Sorry, missy, but I don’t know anyone by those names.”
“Are you sure?” She fluttered her eyelashes at him. “I can make it worth your while.”
The old man’s cheeks shot red. “Can’t help you,” he grunted, retreating a step. “Do you need any cat food? Dog food? Horse feed? Salt licks?”
Dammit. She was getting closer, she could feel it—but she had overplayed her hand.
An insidious voice whispered in the back of her head—you can’t do this. Natalie tried to push that voice away, but it was persistent. It always was.
She needed to find Carlos Julián Santino. A Good Morning was everything she had and she couldn’t let a little something like the lack of exclusive celebrity gossip be the final thing to take her down.
Still, she wasn’t going to find out anything else in this feed store. Maybe there was a café or a diner in town. She’d only started here because, as far as she could tell, Patrick Wesley
