Bucking the Rules (15 page)

Flint nodded again, but took a small step back. It was a gesture most might overlook, but Trace saw it for what it was. Separation, a step in the direction he intended to continue. Despite their quality stock and unmatchable trainer, rumors and hearsay would take them down.

“Gentlemen, you've given me some things to think about. I—”

“Yoohoo!”

Three heads swiveled in unison, and all took in the sight walking toward them.

Trace groaned.

Red closed his eyes in a
this is not happening
sort of gesture.

But Flint? His tongue all but rolled out of his mouth and dragged on the floor like a cartoon hound at the sight of Bea toddling toward them. One arm was out for balance, the other holding that stupid dog against her shoulder like a baby. And damn if she wasn't wearing an imitation Daisy Duke outfit, right down to the skimpy, ripped up cut-off denim shorts and cowboy boots, with a shirt—was that his shirt?—tied up around her navel.

The dog, poor thing, was sporting a red bandana and looking miserable about it.

Damn it. Just what they needed. Red had spent the past five minutes assuring Flint they were a serious business, one to contend with. And now Bea was going to undo it with one shake of her on-display ass.

Bea finally made her way down the dirt path and held out a hand to Flint, who grasped it without hesitation. “I heard in the big house there was a new cowboy to come and see. I couldn't resist.”

Flint—the fifty-year-old man who looked like he could chew up railroad spikes for breakfast—blushed. He actually blushed under that salt-and-pepper beard. “Ma'am.”

“Oh, Bea, please. Everyone calls me Bea.” She rubbed her dog lightly over the back and angled herself slightly so they could see his face. “And this is Mr. Milton.”

The dog shot them a mutinous look that said,
Get me out of here. I'll share my kibble with you
.

Flint chuckled and rubbed the dog on the top of the head with two knuckles. “Not quite a farm dog, is he?”

“Oh, no. He's my baby.” Bea snuggled the dog a little and smiled. “But you must understand about that. The horses are like your babies, right?”

The man stared, glassy-eyed, then shook his head. “I wouldn't say—”

“I could tell you were a nurturing man,” she cooed, interrupting him. Flint didn't seem to mind anyway. Hooking one arm through his, Bea pulled him toward the house. “A man that cares about his animals is a man you can trust, don't you agree?”

“I do,” he said, getting into the swing of things. The man could have been her father, but that didn't stop him from clearly fantasizing about Bea. He followed along with her like a dog on a leash. Except Bea never used a leash for her damn dog.

“That's why you're just the perfect fit for me!” Bea laughed and bumped his shoulder with hers, much to Milton's disgruntlement. “I mean the ranch. Red's just the best there is, isn't he? And did you see my brother up there on that horse? It's magical.”

Trace turned around and doubled over, hands on his knees, trying his hardest to not bark out a laugh. Red kneed him in the thigh and motioned to follow behind the pair heading toward the house.

“Well, I agree Callahan's got a good rep,” Flint said as the magic of Bea's spell started to wear off and commonsense took over. “But I'm still not sure yet.”

“Oh.” Bea stepped back a little and bit her lip. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to push. It's just, there was this other man here a few days ago and I thought you two were friends. I thought he sent you. Oh, darn it, what was his name?”

Trace looked to his left and watched as Red's face went blank. What the hell was she pulling?

“It reminded me of a bird. Ostrich? No, that's silly. Oh, well. No matter.” Bea swatted the thought aside. “I just thought you two were friends for some—”

“Partridge?” Flint said, stopping dead in his tracks.

“Oh, that's a bird, isn't it? Maybe that's it!” Bea lit up and patted Milton's butt. “You're so good at this. Yes, a man—maybe it was this Mr. Partridge, though I'm not exactly positive—was around the other week and I'm not sure how I got it in my mind you two were friends.”

“More like enemies,” Red muttered to Trace. “Confirmed enemies.”

Ah. The dawn broke. Trace debated ending the little act now, sending Bea off to the house and wrapping up the meeting. It's what Peyton would have done. But something, call it instinct, held him back. Since Red wasn't jumping in to stop the show, Trace could only assume his infamous gut was talking and saying to let it play out.

Bea squeezed Flint's arm, and her eyes widened. “I think your arms are bigger than Trace's!”

And that was his punishment for following instinct. He stepped forward, intent on breaking it up, but Red put out a hand. “Let her finish,” he said from the corner of his mouth.

“Did Partridge buy anything?”

Bea's nose scrunched as she thought. “Um, I'm not sure. I'm not really a businesswoman, you know. I don't handle that sort of thing. But he looked so happy when he left, and he said he'd be back soon. . . .” Bea chewed on her bottom lip and hugged Milton tighter. If it was possible, the dog's eyes bugged out even more. “Oh, no. Did I get this wrong? Maybe it wasn't Partridge after all. There are so many bird names. I can't be sure now. Don't hold me to it.”

Flint shook his head. “I'm not worried about that.”

“Oh, please don't tell anyone I mentioned it!” She grasped his wrist in a desperate move, her eyes going wide and a little watery. She blinked rapidly, as if trying to hold back the tears. “I don't want to make a mess of things and I hope I didn't ruin any secrets or surprises. Please don't tell.”

Flint patted her hand, looking more fatherly now than lecherous. “I wouldn't dare. You did the right thing.” He angled his head back a little. “Callahan, should we head back to the office and talk numbers?”

Red tipped his head in agreement. “Sure thing. You head on up there—Emma'll let you in. Tell her to grab a plate of cookies. They're an experience not to be missed.”

“I'll take him!” Bea called and once more hooked her arm through his. “I always love a handsome cowboy escort. I can never bring myself to say no.”

The two men watched in silence as Bea Muldoon, self-proclaimed shallow actress and airhead, led Flint, a hardened horseman with a keen business sense. It was much like watching a skipping child with a balloon and a lollipop lead a docile bull by the ring in his nose.

Once they were out of earshot, Red turned to him, grinning madly. “Brilliant. She was brilliant.”

“Yeah, she pulled that one off, that's for sure. You know, I don't think I gave her enough credit for her talent.” Trace dragged one heel through the dirt. “So who's gonna be the one to tell Peyton how this all went down?”

The men stared at each other for a moment, then in unison muttered, “Bea.”

“Y
ou what?” Peyton's yell thundered inside the small office. Trace wondered that he didn't see some of the picture frames rattle. “You let our sister do the talking? On one of the most important business deals we've seen yet?
Her?
”

“Jesus, Peyton,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “She's right here.”

Bea sat in the club chair opposite the desk, ignoring them both and filing her nails. One leg was crossed over the other, bare foot lazily dangling. She'd changed the moment Flint drove off into a regular tank and khaki shorts that were—to his eternal gratitude—about three inches longer than her ripped cut-offs, but remained barefoot.

“She knows nothing about horses. She can't even name all the freaking tack. She won't step foot in the barn. And she thinks dogs are accessories. But you let her have the reins with Flint. What the hell were you thinking?”

“I was thinking—”

“He was thinking,” Bea interrupted, not looking up from her fingers, “that you were about to lose the deal. No amount of fancy horsemanship by Trace was going to save the day. No superior knowledge or reputation from Red was going to push him over the edge of signing on the dotted line. I'd been listening in before I ran out there.” She glanced up momentarily to look at him. “Am I wrong?”

“She's not wrong,” he told Peyton, and Bea resumed filing. “The guy heard some heavy shit from Three Trees. He was ready to walk. Bea added a nice little imaginary incentive for him.”

Peyton dug her thumbs into her eyes and pushed hard. “Do I even want to know what it was?”

“I merely mentioned that a gentleman with a name that reminded me of birds stopped by last week to look and chat, and he might be back soon.”

Peyton stared at Bea for a moment, then looked to Trace for help.

“Partridge.”

Peyton's mouth dropped. “But he wasn't here. Last week we had Bullock and Robins stop by, but—”

“Robins!” Bea said, holding a hand in the air. “That's it. That's the bird-sounding name.” She grinned maliciously. “Whoops. My bad.”

Ignoring their sister, Peyton asked him, “Did she ever come right out and say Partridge was here?”

Trace ran back through the conversation, then shook his head. “No. She mentioned the bird thing, and Flint came up with it on his own. She even told him she wasn't sure and not to hold her to it.”

“Just said the man I was thinking of said he'd come back next week.”

“Robins is scheduled in on Thursday,” Peyton murmured, watching Bea closely. “How did you know that?”

Bea sighed, then stretched her long legs and stood. “I hear more around this place than anyone else thinks. And I pay attention more than anyone else thinks. You don't give me enough credit.”

The words were said simply, but their implication bit hard. Both Trace and Peyton glanced away, chastened.

“Anyway, I need to take off. Any other questions?” When neither spoke, she shrugged and headed for the door. “I'm taking Milton over to see the vet.”

“Morgan?” Peyton asked, arching a brow. “What's wrong with him?”

“I think he has allergies, poor thing.” Bea glanced out the window. “Is it supposed to get windy? Do you think he needs a sweater?”

Peyton, who'd just started to look at Bea in a new light, deflated. “No. Your dog doesn't need a sweater. Go.”

“Toodles!” Bea waved and sauntered out the door, closing it behind her.

Peyton's eyes bored holes through the door. “I'm not even sure what to make of her anymore.”

“Why make anything?” Trace sat in the chair Bea had evacuated and crossed one boot over his knee. “Bea is who Bea is. She's not an idiot, much as she would like some people to believe. She likes being underestimated.”

Peyton pondered that for a moment, then shrugged. “Whatever. It worked. But don't do it again. We can't let the Bimbo Sister act define us.”

“Point made.” He waited a beat, and then grinned. “It was pretty ingenious though.”

Peyton's lips curved in a reluctant smile. “It wasn't bad.”

“She's trying.”

“Yeah.” Peyton's eyes turned to the door again. “For how long? It's been months. I thought she'd be ready to escape by now. She knows she can. Why is she still here?”

Trace laced his fingers over his stomach. “Have you asked her that?”

Peyton scowled and turned to her computer. “You've got your own problems. Go figure out how to fix things.”

“Does everyone know about me and Jo?” he asked, throwing his hands in the air in exasperation.

“I do now,” she said, a smug smile creeping over her face.

“Damn it.” This stupid town.

Peyton's smile slipped a little. “You used to tell me everything.”

“We were kids back then. The stakes were lower.”

“And then,” she went on as if he hadn't said anything, “you disappeared. You were my best friend, and then you were gone.”

“Jesus, P.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “I was nineteen. I needed to get out and do my own thing.”

“But you barely even said good-bye. Just packed up and left.” She rolled her lips in a little, then went on. “I was left running this place. Me, by myself, battling that woman every step of the way. Knowing for everything I did right, she'd blow in and do three things wrong just to spite me. I think she enjoyed watching Dad's work crumble.”

He shut his eyes.

“I felt like you abandoned me. Left me alone to deal with her.”

“Peyton.”

“Had you planned to go? I need to know that. Had you been planning to leave, and you just didn't share it?”

“Does it matter?”

“It does to me. It won't change things, but I need to know.”

Trace settled back and stared at the ceiling. How much to tell her? What to leave out? “Mom made my life hell.”

“Mom was hell, period.” Peyton snorted. “Sylvia was a piece of work.”

“The last weekend before I left, you were away with the 4-H group. The weekend trip. Bea was sleeping at some friend's house. And I was alone with her. She had one of her wino friends over for a weekend bender. I think she forgot I even lived here half the time, since I was gone so often.”

“Working at the feed store,” his sister murmured.

“The money was nice. Being away from her was better.” He smiled ruefully. “I don't think Monroe's ever had someone who liked coming in to work overtime as much as I did.

“But I was off for the weekend and he didn't need me to come in. So I holed up in my room and prayed she'd forget I was there. She might have, but her friend didn't.” He closed his eyes, then opened them again, praying the images didn't come back while he talked. “That woman—I couldn't tell you her name even if I gave a damn—crept into my room and fell on me. I thought she'd gotten the wrong room at first. God knew she smelled like she was half-drowned in a vat of wine. So I meant to push her off and lead her to the guest bed. But then she started groping.”

Peyton winced but didn't look away.

“I rolled out from under her, heard her calling me to come back. When I hit the hallway, I heard Sylvia snickering in the family room. She knew what was going on and just sat back to watch.”

“Jesus,” Peyton moaned and let her head fall into her arms on the desk.

“Yeah, He wasn't gonna help me, either,” Trace said dryly. “When I asked what the hell her problem was, she just kept laughing and saying she thought I'd like it. A nice eighteenth birthday present, a little early.”

“And you were already nineteen.” Peyton's voice was muffled through her arms. “She never was good about keeping up with birthdays.”

“I'm fine with that. I'd have rather she forgot my existence. After that, I knew I couldn't stay. Any woman who would sit back and watch her own son get molested in his sleep was evil. But what could I tell you to explain why I was going?”

“The truth?” Peyton raised her head and looked at him with such hurt in her eyes, it killed him. “I thought you were just done with me, with the family. Her, I get. But me? Even Bea? The ranch? I thought you were just . . . too old to deal with a kid sister anymore. And Bea was still practically a baby. I thought you were sick of playing man of the house and wanted a fresh start, damn whoever it hurt.”

It needled him that she wasn't entirely wrong, when he stepped back to look at his feelings. While staying with Sylvia had no longer been even remotely possible, he also hadn't been ready to carry the burden of the ranch, of his sisters, of the family's well-being.

And that shamed him. “I left you with her. The whole time, it never occurred to me that while I was saving my own hide, I left you behind.”

Peyton huffed out an unsteady breath. “Yeah, well . . . at least I didn't have anyone groping me.”

There were other violations, like trust and safety, she'd endured instead.

“I'm sorry. I was an adult, and I should have put my feelings aside and stuck it out.”

Peyton stretched her neck, then her arms. “Hardly. You couldn't have made her change, couldn't have kicked her off the property, and couldn't have taken us with you. So in the end, not much would have been different. We would have been stuck and you would have, too. Your getting out was probably what saved us all.”

“How do you figure?” Relieved she didn't seem to harbor intense anger about it, he settled a little.

“I stopped hoping you would step up and did it myself.” She shot him a quick grin. “Lazy ass.”

“Management was your style, not mine. Daddy's desk looks good with you behind it.” And it was true. Trace loved to ride, loved to work with the horses, but in the end he wasn't a businessman. Haggling the price of a horse wasn't the same as running a ranch, and Peyton was ready to do both.

“So.” Peyton blew a piece of hair out of her eyes, tucked it behind her ear. “Now that we've had our little heart to heart, I have one more question.”

“Anything.”

“Who's Seth's mom?”

“Anything but that.” He stood quickly, afraid the openness he felt would reveal his one other shame and he'd let it all flood out. A man could only take so much kumbayah for one day. “Speaking of, he'll be getting up from his nap soon.”

“Off you go, Daddy Dearest.” Peyton waved at him, already engrossed with her computer. Probably adding up the astronomical figures of Flint's offer, and how far out of Sylvia's hole it would dig them.

He accepted the dismissal and bounded up the stairs, hearing Seth the closer he got to the top. Turning to the left, he entered the nursery and just stood, watching his son babble to himself and play with his toes in his crib. Safe and sound, perfect and pure.

“Well, little man, looks like we've got some work ahead of ourselves.” He walked over and picked Seth up, taking him to the changing table. “Our little run-in with Ms. Jo earlier didn't go so well.”

Seth batted at his father's sleeves as he changed the diaper.

“Somehow, we'll figure this out. I mean, how can she resist a pair of handsome Muldoon men? It would be downright criminal, wouldn't it?”

Seth whimpered a little, a sure sign he was hungry for a snack.

“You can think of your stomach at a time like this? Well, I suppose that's natural.” With a final snap of the onesie, Trace picked Seth up and headed back down the stairs for some puffs and Cheerios. “First, food. Then, women.”

It was the natural course of things.

 

Jo wiped the bar again, for the twentieth time, before she caught herself at the mindless task and put the rag away. At this rate, she would have to refinish the bar top from all the abuse. But her mind wasn't in the game. She wasn't sure if she should be happy with the slow night, so her stupidity wouldn't be on display for that many people, or wishing for a busy night so her mind wouldn't have a chance to wander.

Two days. Two days with nada from Trace. Was this his version of the brush-off? His way of saying, “Now you know, so we're done.” Or was he biding his time, figuring out his own move, and would slink back in to apologize somehow?

And more to the point . . . did she want the apology? Or the space?

A smooth breeze washed over her and she watched Jeff walk through the door.

Great. Just what her confused mind needed . . . a night when she had to watch every word she said. Pray God the kid didn't start getting ideas again.

“Hey, Jo.” He hopped up on the seat, grinning easily. Apparently for him, the entire incident with Trace was behind him. “How's it going tonight?”

“Good. Great.” She forced a tight smile and got down a glass for water. “In for dinner?”

“Dinner and a drink. I'll have a Bud to go with that water you're pouring.” He smiled. “I'm in no hurry tonight.”

She pulled the beer and handed him the glass, waiting while he looked over the menu.

“What's good tonight?”

“Salad.” She laughed a little at his grimace. “Try the bacon cheddar burger, if the thought of rabbit food hurts your manly sensibilities.”

“Sold.” He handed the menu back and waited while she entered the order in the computer system. “So how are things with you?”

“Good. Great.” She held back the wince when she realized that was the same answer she'd given already. And that raised brow of his told her he heard the falseness. “Just really busy right now, with the bar and all. Debating adding on another bartender.”