Texas Roots: The Gallaghers of Sweetgrass Springs Page 3

  She would have, gladly, if she'd still been the celebrated, up-and-coming young chef.

  But she was in disgrace now. She had trouble snapping at her ankles.

  Old habits died hard, and for now, Scarlett would run away.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Scarlett wasn't in the mood for the radio, but she was sleepier than was safe, despite all the coffee she'd consumed.

  The wheel jerked in her hands. The car surged toward the ditch at the side of the road. She wrestled the car back straight while frantically looking for a safe place to stop.

  What she found wasn't great, out on a very dark road with trees looming like bony-fingered branches in a horror flick.

  For a couple of minutes, she simply sat inside and tried to stop shaking.

  And fought not to weep.

  Why? She wasn't normally the weeping type. She didn't know that woman back at the cafe. For all she knew, her mother had very good reasons to stay away.

  But she felt so lost. She didn't know what to do. Where to go. Maybe Kostov would be satisfied that she was gone—but what if he sent his thugs after her? What if she hadn't covered her trail well enough? And though the DA had said it could be months before any trial, how would he react to knowing she was gone?

  She wanted to just…give up.

  But she'd never been a quitter. Time to figure out the next step.

  In the middle of this sparse population, should she even bother trying 9-1-1? She wasn't hurt, so doing so would be overkill. Why hadn't she joined Triple A? One glance at her cell phone killed that notion, even if she had. No bars...okay, maybe a half of one.

  Sweetgrass Springs was, what, about five miles back? She could walk five miles, surely—in New York, she walked all the time. Everyone did.

  But it was night. And so very dark out there.

  She saw no sign of habitation anywhere, so the notion of help any closer than Sweetgrass Springs was out. She had no idea what was wrong with her car—how many years had it been since she'd even driven one? In the city, you didn't need one.

  With a steadying breath, she gripped the handle. You've walked all over Manhattan, all hours of the night. You can do this. Operating on the rip-off-the-bandage-fast theory, she forced herself into the night.

  She gravitated toward the headlights. The front left tire looked all right. The hood wasn't steaming, but she couldn't see to open it. Was there a flashlight in the trunk? The tiny one on her keychain was halogen, so it shone brightly at close range, but there was a lot of dark out there, once you got past the hood.

  On the passenger side, she got her answer.

  Flat tire. Oh, boy. Not once in her life had she changed one.

  But that's what they made owner's manuals for, right? Scarlett shivered in the rising wind and gratefully sought the warmer interior of the car.

  Fifteen minutes later and several degrees warmer, she emerged. First she popped the trunk open and moved her belongings to the back seat, thankful she was traveling light. She donned her coat and changed into boots. With gloves on her hands and jeans covering her legs, she was as armored as possible against what might be crawling around in the darkness.

  Though if she spent any time thinking about snakes, she'd never get through this.

  After checking the manual again, she located the mat in the trunk and peeled it back, then unscrewed the big winged nut holding down a sort of cardboard cover. Beneath it—shazaam!—lay the spare tire and pieces of what the instructions assured her was the jack.

  If only she had the faintest notion how to assemble it.

  She removed the metal components and shivered again. She'd packed a set of long johns, but she wasn't eager to spend time removing boots or stripping off jeans. Activity would warm her. Keep moving.

  Next the tire, which was determined not to leave its cocoon. She was strong for her size from years of hauling around big pots, but never had she cursed her small stature more. The thing weighed a ton, and it was wedged in there so tightly she couldn't get it to budge. She'd go to the next step, then come back to the stupid spare.

  Nothing went better after that. Jacking up the car was a nightmare, and trying to loosen what the book called lug nuts simply wasn't happening. Cold and scared and frustrated, Scarlett forced herself to think hard about the alternative: walking back to Sweetgrass Springs. But the town had been deserted except for Ruby's, which was now closed. Did she want to meet her grandmother by waking her up, banging on the door to her house, even if she could find it?

  Too tired to think straight, she decided the best course was to get back in the car and take a short nap, then see if that would help. She'd lock every door, but even so, the very notion was creepy—but what choice did she have?

  Think, blast it. There's an answer here, you just can't see it. Fatigue was making her thick-headed. A nap, then, just a short one. She'd figure this out.

  Scarlett crawled into the car and locked every door. Then she lay down on the seat and made herself as small and unnoticeable as possible.

  And wished she knew how to pray.

  No wonder her mother had left. The back end of nowhere was not where Scarlett belonged.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Just past dawn, Ian McLaren rose from his haunches, crumbling the clumps of dirt in his hand as he stared across acres drenched in his family's blood and toil. Legs spread and solidly planted on the ground that had belonged to McLarens for one hundred seventy-six years, Ian wondered if he would be the last of his line able to claim it.

  He held the remaining bits to his nose and drew in the scent of earth that was the foundation of his existence. Not for him would be the wanderlust of his boyhood buddy Mackey or the rebellion of his best friend Jackson Gallagher, banished at eighteen and never heard from again. The Double Bar M Ranch was Ian's future. His blood and bone…his heritage. Stewardship of this place was what he'd been groomed for all his life.

  And every last bit of it might be gone for good, if something didn't change, if he didn't find the answers his dad Gordon would accept. He had a degree in agribusiness from Texas Tech and had formulated a plan he thought might work.

  But Gordon McLaren wouldn't bend. Wouldn't accept that change was inevitable, and he was still the owner of the Double Bar M. Ian's plans would involve borrowing money, anathema to his dad's Scots blood. Gordon had always sold his calves at the market barn in Johnson City and had not needed to borrow money to replace his cows or do improvements for many years. He could quote chapter and verse on the pitfalls, citing examples like the neighbor who was forced to sell because he'd wasted all that money on cross-fencing his land to do some new intensive rotational grazing program—then the drought had hit and the bank had called the note.

  He turned deaf ears to Ian's ideas about raising organic beef, about setting up his own small organic feedlot to supply the enormous appetite of Austin and San Antonio restaurants and high-end groceries. That his dad could put other local people to work if he'd expand further into an organic packing plant went right past Gordon's rock-hard head. If only his dad had listened to him, they could have been positioned to own those extra 1200 acres to the west to add to their 2500. Instead, six attorneys from Houston would be hunting there twice a year.

  Yes, the Double Bar M possessed deep waters, fertile valley floor soil, sweet green grass that allowed the raising of cattle few other spreads could afford. Two dry years were behind them, though, and another ahead if the weathermen were to be believed. The ranch account books, which Ian had taken over after his dad's stroke, no longer were plump with commas and zeroes. He'd stripped the ranch staff to a skeleton, was doing his dad's work and his own, yet the evidence was indisputable.

  Something had to give.

  There were options to Ian's plan, of course—the place would sell for a princely sum to rich city folks whose first step would likely be to abandon the simple stone ranch house built by Ian's great-great-grandfather. Instead they'd build some monstrous mansion on top of the ridge, with its b
reath-stealing views of the Hill Country, but his dad would never have to worry about money again, and Ian himself could go anywhere he wanted.

  But Ian loved his father, and Gordon's pride had been damaged enough. That he couldn't take his active role any longer grated on Gordon, and Ian wouldn't be part of sacrificing one more bit of his father's pride.

  He could turn the place into an exotic game ranch and entertain hunters, but Ian wasn't much on company, nor was his dad, not since Ian's mother had left them when Ian was small. Somehow, during her whirlwind romance with a cowboy, his city sophisticate mother had misunderstood Gordon's quiet nature and his intense connection to his land. Desperate when she realized there would not be frequent vacations or trips to fancy restaurants or art galleries, she'd made a half-hearted attempt to take Ian with her. When Gordon had flat refused to let his son leave, Ian's mother had abandoned them both, her only legacy bitter resentment and a lifelong distrust of footloose women.

  Ian let the last grains of earth drift through his fingers and strode toward the main barn. From this part of the ranch, he could faintly hear the river. He turned his face in that direction, more than a little tempted to seek out the refuge he always found on its banks, but before he took one step, he shook his head. He had no time for idleness.

  Not if he was going to save the Double Bar M.

  * * *

  Something cracked against the window, and Scarlett bolted awake, screaming.

  A man's tall frame loomed in the car window.

  Kostov's man.

  She scuttled into the corner of the back seat. "I have a gun," she shouted. "I'm calling the cops!" In the dim light of pre-dawn, she prayed he couldn't see that she was unarmed and her phone wouldn't work.

  "Lady…" said a decidedly Texas drawl. Dark brows snapped together while empty hands rose from the man's sides, palms out. "I'm not going to hurt you. Just stopped to see if I could help."

  The slow smooth baritone took her fear down a notch. She shook her head to clear it. She'd tossed half the night. "I'm fine. Go away."

  "Need help changing that flat?"

  Oh, crap. She'd forgotten. She peered closer. Even in dawn's light, he looked nothing like the men who'd threatened her in New York.

  This one was no brute. He was gorgeous. Broad shoulders filled out a denim shirt to a mouth-watering degree. The ball cap on his head covered shaggy hair curling up a little around the edge.

  Golden brown eyes studied hers. "Would you open the window so we can talk? I can't hear you."

  Uh-uh, no way. She scrabbled around for her purse, for her pepper spray.

  He was already headed around the front of the car.

  "Stop! Don't move!"

  He looked askance at her and continued on his way. At the right front, he stopped. Broke into a grin that didn't seem remotely dangerous.

  But she was a long way from anything familiar. "Step away."

  "What?"

  "STEP. AWAY."

  He exhaled. "Would you please roll down the window? I'll keep my hands out to the side if that will make you feel better."

  She couldn't lower the windows from the back seat, but he only seemed exasperated, not dangerous.

  And he was trying to help.

  She opened the door a crack. "Stay back." Maybe he wasn't from Kostov, but he could be a serial killer. Not all of them were ugly.

  "Why?"

  "So I can come out and look."

  He rolled his eyes. "You're worried about me, when what you should be worrying about are the critters."

  "What critters?" She glanced around but saw nothing.

  "You probably think you're safe with pepper spray, right?" A pitying look. "Rattlers don't much care about pepper spray. Or scorpions, for that matter."

  Scorpions. Snakes. Maybe she'd just stay right where she was—but there was still that flat tire. "Stand over there," she ordered. "By your pickup."

  "Because I couldn't cross the distance and jump you before you could say boo?" He shook his head. "You're from New York, huh?"

  "What makes you say that?"

  "Your license plates?"

  Oh. Right. She would never see him again, but still caution reared its head. "I'm not from anywhere, really."

  "Everyone's from somewhere. You don't have a Yankee accent."

  "I don't have any accent."

  He frowned and glanced at the sky. "Listen, I've got stock to dose. Get a move on if you're coming."

  Stock to dose—what on earth did that mean? "So go. I'll be fine."

  "Uh-huh." He gave the tire a pointed look. "A gentleman doesn't leave a lady stranded. Anyway, this jack setup is pathetic."

  "You're too annoying to be a serial killer," she muttered, shoving the back door open and jumping out.

  As she approached him, she noted the difference in their heights, the powerful frame. His jeans were worn, his boots were scuffed. He looked as though he'd been formed by this land, rugged and handsome.

  And he was trying unsuccessfully to hide a grin.

  That did it. "The jack works just fine. And I am not helpless. Maybe I've never changed a tire, but any idiot can read a book. Yes, it took me a while, but I figured out where the jack was and got it out. It took forever, but I raised the car. I just couldn't get the, the—whatchamacallits, the little things, off."

  "Lug nuts?"

  "Right. Lug nuts. And stop smirking."

  "I would never smirk."

  She narrowed her eyes at him. He only grinned again, and this time she noticed a dimple in his left cheek, an oddity on that square-jawed, rugged face. "I simply needed to rest because I'd driven all day. I feel much stronger now."

  "Uh-huh. Well, how 'bout you save all that strength for driving, then." He whistled one piercing note, and through the window of his enormous, beat-up black pickup leaped a dog, a big one, who came charging straight for her.

  She backed up against her car. Stifled a scream.

  "Blue—" the man shouted. "Sit!"

  The dog plopped on his butt right in front of her.

  "Um...good boy?" She didn't take her eye off the dog. "Is he—shouldn't he be over there with you?"

  "He won't move a muscle unless I say so."

  "But...what do I do?"

  The dog cocked his head. His coat was a shaggy patchwork of tan and gray and white. His eyes were weird, light and ghostly.

  "You could let him sniff your hand."

  "I don't think so." She fisted both hands and drew them high on her chest.

  The dog whined softly, and his butt wiggled. He had a short tail that seemed to be wagging. But still... "I think you should call him."

  "Why?" In seconds, the car was jacked up twice as high as she'd managed. "Pop the trunk," he ordered, "then come around here and let's see what you can do."

  She inched to the side but didn't look away. To her relief, the dog didn't move. She reached inside the driver's door and released the latch on the trunk, then eased toward the rear, away from the dog.

  "You can walk around wherever you want to. Blue doesn't bite."

  "You sure? He's big."

  "Not that big. You're just little. He's an Australian shepherd. He herds things, he doesn't attack them."

  "Oh." She thought for a second about holding out her hand to the animal but decided to save that. Instead she scooted around to where the man hunkered. Though she was freezing, he'd rolled up his sleeves. His forearms were ropy with muscle.

  Not that she was going to notice. "The car is up really high. Is that safe?"

  "What's not safe is it not being level. A car can fall off a jack and do some damage. Give me your hand."

  Gingerly she extended hers.

  His forehead wrinkled as he perused her palms. "You need gloves or you'll get blisters."

  "My hands are strong."

  "Of course they are." His tone made his doubts clear. With impressive ease, back muscles flexing beneath his well-worn shirt in a way that made her mouth water, he removed the lug nu
ts, one by one, and laid them inside the hubcap. Then he wrenched off the tire and dropped it to the side, where it landed with a thud.

  "I'll get the spare," Scarlett said.

  "Best let me. You could hurt yourself."

  She huffed and hurried toward the trunk. Men out here were as Neanderthal as she'd feared. She'd never let her size hold her back. She reached inside and unscrewed the bolt holding the spare. She had to pull hard, but at last it came free. She lifted it, gritting her teeth as she had to drag it over the edge, bracing it against her stomach.

  Once out, the weight of it staggered her, but sheer pride had her holding on instead of dropping it completely. She righted it and began to roll it around the car, frowning as she spotted the black smear across her shirt.

  But she'd done it, hadn't she?

  He watched her but didn't interfere, and she liked him a little better for that. She came to stop in front of him, daring him with a look to make fun of her efforts.

  He simply nodded to her. "Thanks." She rested her hands on her hips and worked not to let the exertion show. If the dimple winked a time or two, at least he didn't point out how much she'd struggled.

  When he lifted the tire in one hand and swung it toward the wheel, she tried not to hate him.

  "Want to tighten these?" he asked.

  She looked at him with new respect. "I would."

  He moved back and let her in front of him. "Tighten all of them as much as you can, then we'll let the jack down and go around one more time. You don't want one coming loose. That's real dangerous."

  She was intensely aware of his nearness, and she had to concentrate hard to shut him out and focus only on the exertion. When she'd gone all the way around and put her back into every one, she glanced over her shoulder. When he nodded, she felt a real sense of accomplishment.

  "Now let down the jack slowly until the tire is resting on the ground."

  She complied.

  "Okay, now see if you can tighten them any more."

  She did, but she could only get two of them to tighten further. She looked back at him again. "You could probably do better."