The Last Good Man in Texas Page 3

  "Cautious," Ace corrected. "When we're dealing with anything associated with the old man, caution is always the best course."

  Dragging a weary hand over his hair, Rory sank down on a box. "I see your point."

  "So you're planning to continue to keep an eye on her, right?"

  "Do I have a choice?"

  "No."

  Rory heaved a sigh. "Then, yeah, I guess I am."

  * * *

  Macy wrapped her arms around the steering wheel and dropped her head against its center. Two days digging through court records and trying to get people to talk to her and she'd come up with nothing. Nada. A big fat zero.

  Lifting her head, she propped her chin on her hands and stared glumly out the windshield. She hated to admit it, but it appeared that Rory Tanner was right. The citizens of Tanner's Crossing weren't going to share any secrets about their townspeople with a stranger. She needed help.

  Unfortunately the only person she knew to ask for that help was Rory, and she'd rather eat Brussels sprouts—her least favorite vegetable—than ask him for anything. He might be a Matthew McConaughey look-alike, with his chiseled features and lady-killer grin, but whatever attraction she might have felt for him ended when he'd failed to tell her he was a Tanner. And he'd enjoyed the deception. She could still see the smug look on his face when he'd stuck out his hand and introduced himself as "Rory Tanner, Buck Tanner's youngest son," succeeding in humiliating her in front of his entire family.

  But he'd offered her his help, she reminded herself.

  And she'd slam-dunked his offer right back in his face.

  With a groan, she started the Jeep's engine and backed out of the parking space, certain that he would never agree to assist her after the way she'd treated him. But with no other options open to her, she was willing to get down on her hands and knees and beg, if necessary, to get him to reconsider his offer.

  At the four-way stop that marked the northwest corner of the square, she pulled into a space on the lot adjacent to Tanner's Cowboy Outfitters and parked. A quick scan of the area revealed pallets of grass, positioned randomly around the parking lot, and about ten twelve-foot rows of potted plants and shrubs, all of which were wilting under a hot midday sun. She spotted Rory immediately, standing in front of his store, his back to her, a cell phone at his ear. She didn't have to hear his conversation to know that he was mad. Really mad, if body language was any indication. He stood with his legs braced wide, his shoulders squared, as if ready for a fight.

  Though she'd never admit it to anyone, least of all Rory Tanner, who obviously already possessed a Texas-size ego, he could've played the starring role in a fantasy she'd indulged in as a teenager. A rough-and-tumble cowboy, riding in to rescue her from a life that her mother had made a living hell. He'd hold her mother and stepfather off at gunpoint, swing her up onto the saddle behind him, then ride away into the sunset, where she'd live the kind of life she'd always yearned for.

  Probably a result of watching too many Western movies on late-night television, she thought wryly, and made herself focus on the purpose of her visit.

  Bracing herself for what she feared was going to be a humbling experience, she climbed down from her Jeep and strode purposefully toward Rory. She was less than ten feet away, when he yelled at the top of his lungs, "I don't care what that lying son of a bitch says! I've got a contract with his name on it that says he's doing this landscaping job. You find him and tell him to get his butt over here and I mean now!"

  He held the phone to his ear a moment longer, obviously listening, then reared back and hurled it through the air, swearing a blue streak.

  Stunned, Macy stumbled to a stop and watched as the phone struck the store's stone front with a whack and exploded, sending shards of debris flying in every direction.

  His shoulders rigid in anger, he wheeled but skidded to a stop when he saw her. "What the hell do you want?" he snapped.

  Maybe this isn't the best time to ask for a favor, she thought weakly. She took another quick look at the plants withering beneath the hot sun, and decided he might be more amenable to a trade than a favor. It was certainly more appealing to her than getting down on her knees and begging.

  She slid her hands into the pockets of her slacks, trying for a casual nonchalance. "Sounds as if your landscaper didn't show up."

  His lip curled in a snarl at the mention of the landscaper. "The swindler thinks a week-long vacation in the Bahamas is more important than honoring a signed contract."

  "That's too bad," she said, and started down a narrow aisle created by rows of plants. "Better get some water on these," she warned, brushing her fingertips along leaves already beginning to droop. "These plants are going to die in this heat if they aren't put in the ground soon."

  She heard the stomp of his footsteps behind her but kept walking.

  "I'm aware of that," he growled, "and I intend to see what I can do about it, just as soon as I get rid of you."

  She stooped to right a fallen pot. "I could do the landscape job for you."

  There was a moment of stunned silence, then his strangled "You?"

  Irritated that he'd doubt her ability, she shot him a frown. "Yes, me." Keeping the frown, she squatted down to examine a red yucca plant. "If you're worried that I'd botch the job, there's no need. I've had plenty of experience."

  "Doing what? Puttering around in a flower bed in your backyard?" He snorted a laugh. "Lady, this is about ten hours of backbreaking work, and that's if you had a crew helping you."

  She stood and dusted off her hands. "I'd imagine I could scrape together a crew. Most towns usually have a place where day laborers can be hired."

  He looked at her more closely. "Are you serious about this?"

  "Yes, I am."

  He dragged a hand over his mouth, considering. "And how much would you charge me to do the job?"

  "The only money you'd be out would be for the day laborers I hire. We can work a trade for my fee."

  "And what kind of trade did you have in mind?"

  "I'll do your landscaping and you'll help me find my father."

  "Ah," he said, lifting a brow as understanding dawned. "I take it you've had a few doors slammed in your face."

  It was so like him to rub it in her face. "A few," she admitted reluctantly.

  "I'd say 'I told you so,' but I'm too much of a gentleman to stoop that low."

  "A gentleman wouldn't have brought it up in the first place."

  Smiling, he extended his hand. "Gentleman or not, you've got yourself a deal. When can you start?"

  She eyed his hand a moment, wary, but told herself the shake was necessary to seal the agreement. Grabbing his hand, she gave it a quick pump, then dropped it and turned for her Jeep, wiping her palm down her thigh.

  "I'll be back as soon as I can put together a crew," she called over her shoulder. "Shouldn't take me long."

  * * *

  It was a good thing Rory wasn't a gambling man. He'd have bet the ranch that he wouldn't see Macy again for days, if at all. He would have lost the bet—and the ranch—because, within the hour, she was back, her Jeep loaded down with men and equipment.

  Unable to believe she'd pulled it off, he stepped outside his store and watched as she began dragging tools out of the back of her Jeep and passing them out to the men lined up, waiting. He noted that she was dressed in overalls and a tank top again, which he was beginning to believe was her standard wear. A ball cap covered her hair, its brim pulled down low to shade her face from the sun. Sunglasses shielded her eyes and a pair of beat-up running shoes peeked from beneath the hems of her overalls.

  Once the tools were distributed, she motioned for the men to follow her to a pallet of grass, where she gave clipped orders in Spanish, instructing the men to rake the ground smooth and lay out the sod. Once she was sure they'd understood her instructions, she pulled a clipboard from the front seat of her Jeep and headed for the rows of potted plants. With the clipboard braced against her middle, she st
udied the site a moment, then bent her head and began to write.

  Curious to see what she was up to, Rory moved to peer over her shoulder. "What are you doing?"

  She jumped, then frowned and angled her body away from him. "Drawing a design."

  "You're an artist?"

  "No. A landscape architect."

  He drew back to frown at the back of her head. "You didn't say anything about being a landscape architect."

  "Kinda like you not saying anything about being a Tanner?" she asked, then gave him a smug two-can-play-this-game smile, tucked the clipboard beneath her arm and strode for the front of the building.

  Score one for the lady, he thought in grudging admiration, then followed.

  When he caught up with her, she was studying the building, her lips pursed in concentration. After a moment, she lifted the clipboard, flipped a page and began to sketch again.

  He watched in fascination as a rough but amazingly detailed drawing of his store appeared on the blank page. "You're really good at that," he said, surprised at her skill.

  Her attention focused on her work, she murmured a distracted "I get by."

  "Was that part of your training?"

  She glanced up at him in confusion. "What?"

  He gestured toward the clipboard. "Drawing."

  She resumed her sketching. "Yes and no. Yes, we were required to draw structures to scale, and no, there were no formal classes in which we were taught artistic technique."

  Catching her lower lip between her teeth, she tapped the end of the pencil against the drawing. "There isn't room for structured beds," she said, as if thinking aloud. "But the front needs color and softening. I'd suggest some potted plants. A whiskey barrel or two here," she said, and quickly sketched them into the design. "A horse trough would work beneath the display windows," she added, drawing it in, as well. "Plus it would add character and offer an element of authenticity to the store. We could fill it with seasonal flowers. Geraniums in the summer and pansies in the winter. Or, if you'd prefer, we could plant succulents that could stay year-round.

  "And along this side of the property," she said, using the pencil to point at the narrow strip of land between his and the neighboring business, "we could plant ornamental trees. Texas mountain laurels would do well there. There's adequate sunlight and room for them to grow. Or, if you'd rather have more color, we could use crepe myrtles. Both would offer privacy and enhance the aesthetics of your store."

  Rory gave his head a shake, amazed at how quickly she had put together what looked like an inspired design. "Wow. You're good at this. Really good."

  Putting the pencil to paper again, she scribbled notes in the margin. "Your father paid for my education. The money wasn't wasted, although I did pay it back."

  "Speaking of that," he said, and pulled his wallet from his back pocket. He drew out the cashier's check and held it out to her. "This is yours. My brothers and I agree that you should keep it."

  She looked at the check, then turned away, tucking the clipboard under her arm. "I don't want it."

  Frustrated, Rory followed. "There's no use arguing over this. We don't want or need the money. Besides, Buck gave it to you."

  "Under duress," she reminded him.

  "Macy—"

  She spun to face him, her mouth set in a determined line. "Look. I didn't like your father. I didn't know him, but I didn't like him, which I think is understandable, considering he chose to set up a trust fund for me, rather than raise me as his own child. Then I learned that he wasn't my father. That I'd hated and resented an innocent man for years. That I'd been used as an unknowing pawn to milk him for money. Do you know how that makes me feel?" Setting her jaw, she turned away. "Rotten. That's how. Giving the money back is the only way I have to make it up to him, to right a wrong."

  The woman felt guilty for thinking mean thoughts about Buck? Rory would've laughed, but he had a feeling she wouldn't understand the humor, even if he cared to explain it to her.

  "Tell you what," he said, moving around her. He made a show of slipping the check back into his wallet and the wallet into the pocket of his jeans. "We'll table this for now." When she would've argued, he held up a hand. "I understand your reasons for wanting to give the money back, but you've got to understand my brothers' and my position, as well. Whatever his reasons in doing so, it was Buck who gave you the money and we don't feel it's our place to take it back. And as to you feeling guilty about resenting Buck—" He paused and scratched his jaw. "Well, if it'll make you feel any better, my brothers and I didn't like him much, either."

  Her eyes widened in surprise. "You didn't?"

  "Nope, and for much the same reason as you. The old man may have claimed us, but he was never much of a father."

  * * *

  The next afternoon, Rory stood before the front window of his store, looking out. Country-western music pulsed around him from speakers set strategically throughout the store. Behind him, his staff laughed and talked as they priced merchandise and put it out for display in preparation for the grand opening, a week away. Beyond the window, Macy strolled around the perimeter of the parking lot, inspecting the completed landscaping job, pausing occasionally to pinch off a dead bloom or tamp down loose mulch around a plant.

  He couldn't believe she'd managed to pull it off. And the design she'd come up with was a sight better than the one the original landscaper had proposed for the job … and cheaper, too, considering she was trading her own fee for his help in finding her father.

  Man, that's got to be tough, he thought, thinking about what she'd told him. Not knowing who your father was. He supposed, now that he thought about it, it might explain why she walked around with her shoulders hunched up close to her ears. That chip she carried was quite a load for anyone to haul around, much less a woman.

  She glanced toward the store and their gazes met. He felt a jolt to his system at the contact and was a little unnerved by it, as it was one he usually attributed to sexual interest. But he wasn't attracted to her, he told himself. Hell, just look at her! With that ball cap turned around backward on her head and her overalls splattered with mud, she looked more like a twelve-year-old boy than she did a woman.

  He hauled in a deep breath to ward off the panic that wanted to grab him by the throat and told himself it was pity he felt for her. Yeah, pity, he thought, going almost weak with relief that he'd identified the emotion.

  She motioned for him to come outside and he lifted a hand in acknowledgment, then headed for the door. "I'm calling it a day," he called to his staff. "If you need me, you can reach me on my cell."

  "You busted your cell phone."

  He paused in the doorway to look back at his manager, Linda Sue Carmichael, a woman in her midfifties and a family friend who went back years. Grinning, he shot her a wink. "Don't worry that pretty little head of yours. I already bought another one. Same number," he added as he let the door close behind him.

  Shoving his hands into his pockets, he strode toward Macy, who waited beneath the scrap of shade created by one of the mountain laurels she'd planted.

  "All done?" he called to her.

  She nodded, then gestured toward the men waiting beside her Jeep. "All that's left is paying the men."

  "How much?"

  She named a figure, and Rory pulled out his wallet. He peeled off several bills, then slipped the wallet back into his pocket.

  She quickly counted the money, then passed back one of the bills. "You gave me a hundred too much."

  He waved her away. "It's for the men. Tell 'em it's a bonus for all their hard work." He hitched his hands low on his hips and looked around, pleased with the results. "You did a good job, Macy. And I don't mind telling you, it looks a hell of a lot better than Arnold could've done."

  She stuffed the wad of bills into her pocket. "I'll tell the men you're pleased with their work."

  "And yours," he said, giving her a pointed look. "The design is what makes the difference."

  Sh
e shrugged. "A design isn't worth squat if not properly implemented. The men worked hard and followed instructions well. With the proper care, your grass and plants should thrive."

  "They'll get the care they need," he assured her.

  She shuffled uneasily from one foot to the other, as if she had something to say but was having a hard time spitting it out.

  "About your end of our trade," she began uneasily.

  He held up a hand. "Say no more. I intend to uphold my end of our bargain. In fact, I've already given this some thought. Buck used to hang out at a place in Killeen called the Longhorn. Dixie Leigh is the owner and a personal friend of the family. I figure we can pay her a visit. See what she knows."

  She took an expectant step toward him. "Now?"

  Wrinkling his nose, he backed away and gave her a slow look down and up. "You might want to change clothes first."

  She huffed a breath. "I didn't mean right this minute. I have to take the guys home first. I can meet you back here—" she glanced at her wristwatch "—in, say, an hour and a half?"

  Rory checked his own watch and nodded. "Six o'clock, it is."

  * * *

  Rory stole a glance at Macy, who rode in the passenger seat next to him. The woman was a bundle of nerves.

  "Much more and you're going to twist that necklace in two," he warned.

  Startled, she glanced his way, then down to the fingers she had twined through her gold chain. Embarrassed, she unwound her fingers and tucked them beneath her thighs, pinning them against the seat. "Sorry. I guess I'm a little nervous."

  "Nothing to be nervous about," he told her as he swung his truck into an empty space in front of the Longhorn and parked. "Dixie Leigh is one of the sweetest ladies I've ever known." He reached for the door handle and glanced her way. "Ready?"

  She gulped, nodded, then climbed down. With Rory leading the way, she followed him into the bar. Though it was nearly seven, the place was almost empty. Two soldiers played a game of eight ball at a pool table, while several cowboys sipped beer from the comfort of a booth near the bar.