Lone Star Rising. Darlene Graham
he said sarcastically.
“Yeah,” his friend, equally sarcastic, chimed in. “You know we’re gonna get called out to fish some yahoo out of a ditch.” And then the men were off and running again, complaining about the weather and the constant problem of flooding roads and bridges in the Hill Country.
Except Zack was still looking at Robbie with an expression that said he was worried about her. Lightning flashed and thunder boomed outside the window as he said quietly, “Everything okay, Robbie?”
Robbie nodded, swallowed. Don’t look at me like that, she wanted to say. It makes me weak in the knees and I have work to do here.
“You guys want the farmer breakfast?” Robbie said as she gathered up the last of the soggy napkins.
“Yep,” Mason answered for them all.
Nattie Rose’s round face popped under the pass-through space. “I’ve gotta help Parson back here, honey. Could you take care of those guys at table nine?” That’s where the Rotary-types were and Robbie was well aware that Nattie Rose was making sure Robbie got the generous tips today.
The men at that table kept up a jovial banter about the weather as Robbie poured coffee into upturned mugs for all four.
“The usual for you guys?” Robbie said with a falsely light tone.
When the men nodded she was glad to dash off to the kitchen.
Back in the safety of Parson’s domain, she nearly collapsed against the center island. She’d made a complete fool of herself, pouring tea for Zack in her slummy little kitchen yesterday, basking in the warmth of his attention, telling him how she’d love to cook spaghetti for him sometime, when all the time the man had a hot date lined up for tonight.
“What’s wrong?” Parson asked.
Lord, Robbie was sick of people asking her what was wrong.
Nattie Rose zipped around, already getting flushed with the challenges of the day. “Look sharp, my lovelies. The masses are hungry.”
Parson turned back to the grill.
Robbie took down three plates and started to fill them. Biscuit. Biscuit. Biscuit. She took up the ladle. Gravy. Gravy. Gravy.
Nattie Rose joined her at the island to work up some of the orders.
“Do you know who Zack Trueblood is dating these days?” Robbie asked casually, while her heart hammered with a fresh wave of humiliation.
“Some gal from over at Wildhorse. Divorced. I hear she’s got a big ranch.”
Robbie’s hands kept working but her heart felt like it had clutched to a standstill. A rich woman with a ranch. Isn’t that just what any man would want?
OUT OF THE CORNER of his eye, Zack noted Arlen Mestor’s plodding progress as he lumbered into the restaurant. The old man shook off the rain, then ambled up on his usual stool like a grumpy grizzly bear.
“Excuse me a minute, fellas.” Zack pushed up from the table and crossed the room.
He slid up on the stool next to Arlen at the counter. “Mestor.”
“Trueblood.” The two were acquainted, but had not been on friendly terms since the night some months prior when Zack had lectured the older man about the faulty wiring in a rental house that had burned to the ground. The family was not home at the time, but the sight of a baby doll with a melted face had set Zack’s blood to boiling. Zack had already pulled a business card out of his shirt pocket. He snapped it onto the Formica in front of Arlen.
Zack tapped the card, which Mestor hadn’t acknowledged. “I’ll give you a discount if you let me do the repairs on that house Robbie Tellchick just rented from you.”
“Nattie Rose!” Mestor bellowed toward the pass-through window as if Zack hadn’t spoken. “What does a man have to do to get a cup of coffee in this joint?”
Finally, Mestor sneered at the card. “What repairs would that be?” The way his nostrils flared when he spoke reminded Zack of a snuffling pig.
“A few things here and there. Safety issues, mostly.” Zack had said the word “safety” pointedly. He knew Mestor remembered well the fire that consumed one of his rental houses, if for no other reason than the financial ones.
Nattie Rose sashayed out of the kitchen brandishing a carafe of coffee. “You want a cup up here at the counter, too, Zack?” she said as she poured Mestor’s.
“I’m fine,” Zack said mildly.
“Sugar.” Mestor tapped the counter with a stubby finger, his tone was demanding.
Nattie Rose shoved the sugar jar, which was all of a foot away, toward Mestor, and then gave him a poisonous parting look before she disappeared through the swinging door to the kitchen.
“Well,” Zack pressed, “how about it? I’ll only charge you for the materials, throw in my labor for free. You won’t have to do a thing.”
Mestor dumped a hideous amount of sugar into his coffee before he answered. “Why are you so all-fired up to work on that old house?”
“Because it needs it,” Zack answered simply. “The place is an eyesore.”
“Always poking your nose in where it don’t belong, ain’t you, Trueblood?” Mestor stirred his coffee slowly, frowning as if considering something. “I ain’t sure I want you messin’ with my property. And I’d still like to know why you even want to. It’s that pretty little pregnant lady, ain’t it?” Mestor asked the question loudly, so as to be addressing the whole restaurant.
Before Zack could answer, Mestor continued even louder. “Or should I say it’s that prime piece of land that little pregnant lady has out there by the river?”
By an act of will, Zack kept his own voice low. “I don’t know what you’re implying, but—”
“I ain’t implying nothin’. I am saying flat out that you have always wanted a piece of farmland out on the Blue River ever since your granddad lost his place. Your granddad used to tell me all the time how blessed he was to have a boy like you to take over his farm when he was gone.”
Zack stared straight ahead, the muscles in his jaw working furiously. He could imagine that conversation, all right. Mestor had probably made some ill-advised crack about Zack’s mother and her illegitimate kid, and Zack’s granddad had defended them. He wondered if that accounted for Mestor’s missing teeth.
“Well, old granddad’s gone now, and so is his farm. Am I right?” Mestor was fairly bellowing now. “And now you’re looking to replace it. But if you have some cockeyed notion that running around doing favors for the Tellchick woman will get her to sell you that land for a song, you’re nothing but a fool, boy.”
Nobody called Zack a fool, least of all a blustery out-of-shape middle-aged man who really was one. Mestor had a lived a life tainted by alcoholism, chronic foul moods and various run-ins with the law. A notorious tightwad, the man was twice divorced and made a nuisance of himself with ladies he eventually claimed were only after his money. Even the old man’s own children avoided him. He ran around town acting like he had connections with the movers and shakers, but Zack remembered his granddad saying that among that crowd Arlen Mestor stood out like a goat in a flock of sheep.
Zack slid off the stool and stood to his full height. “Arlen, you talk too much.”
“That’s because I know too much.”
When Mestor leaned toward Zack threateningly, Zack detected a whiff of alcohol. The residue from last night’s binge maybe? Or maybe Mestor had already had his first Bloody Mary of the day.
“It is no surprise to me,” Mestor went on without encouragement from anybody in particular, “that you approached the bank about taking over the loan on that farm. Seeing as how you could never afford the down payment in a