Gambling On A Secret. Sara Walter Ellwood
back his fist and let loose. Dylan saw it coming and nimbly dodged the sucker punch by grabbing the flailing arm. A heartbeat later, he had Nicky in a chokehold.
Brenda and her sister screamed, and Mike stepped closer. The bartender moved in with an old billy club in hand. “That’s enough, Quinn. Let him go.”
He looked over at the big man. “Aww, Sam, can’t a man have some fun?”
Sam Larson slapped the billy club on the palm of his hand with a loud smack. “I’m not tellin’ you again, Quinn. Let him go.”
He glanced around. Every eye was on him. “Fine.” But instead of letting go, he tightening his hold on Nick and said in the other man’s ear, “Just a word of advice, Nicky. Don’t get too comfortable in my house. If she cheated on me, how long do you think it will be before she throws you over?”
He let go of the gasping man, but Brenda grabbed Dylan’s arm. She stood before him toe-to-toe. He looked over the curves the tight jeans and snug T-shirt outlined. What the hell had he ever seen in her?
Brenda fisted her hands by her sides and stood with her feet apart. “I never set out to cheat on you.” Her voice pitched low, and her eyes flashed with rage. “But when I came to Fort Benning to see you off before you went to Afghanistan, you refused to even discuss us having a baby.” Brenda swallowed and glanced at Nick, who was rubbing his neck and watching them. “I wanted kids. I was thirty-four and got tired of waiting on you to deal with your screwed up issues with your father.” She returned to Nick and glared at Dylan over her shoulder. “Don’t ever come near us again, or I’ll press charges for harassment.”
He snorted in response, turned away and stepped right into the path of Zack Cartwright.
“Shit, this night just keeps gettin’ better,” he mumbled.
The sheriff stood with his feet apart, hands on his waist above his service belt and scowled at him. “What’s the problem here?”
He shrugged and glanced back at his ex-wife fawning over Nicky. “Nothin’, Sheriff. Just congratulatin’ the happy couple.”
“That so?” Cartwright continued to throw off big-bad-lawman vibes. “Let’s go, Captain.”
He dodged the sheriff’s hand before it landed on his upper arm. “You takin’ me to jail?”
“Not tonight. I’m taking you home. You aren’t in any shape to drive, but since you’re still on your feet, I’ll let Tracy deal with your sorry ass.”
As they headed to the exit, he said, “Geez, Zack, you and my sister seem to be getting quite cozy these days. You rekindlin’ those old flames?”
Zack stiffened and narrowed his eyes again. “You’re a comedian when you’re shitfaced, Quinn. Let’s go. I don’t have all night to deal with your bullshit. My daughter’s home with a sitter.”
* * * *
Charli sipped coffee from the Styrofoam cup she clutched, and stared at the beautiful house across the county road from where she’d parked. The afternoon sun rode high in the big clear sky and made the Italian single-story glow.
Spurred by a crazy impulse, she’d driven south to Killeen to Dylan Quinn’s second reference. Almost two weeks had passed since she’d met him. She never let anything interfere with her schoolwork, but she’d nearly flubbed her criminal sociology exam–which meant she almost got a B–because she couldn’t stop thinking about him. Even now, she should have been at the ranch unpacking. Instead, she’d left the moment the movers finished unloading the truck.
Whatever she’d been expecting, it hadn’t been the yellow stucco house. With its red tile roof and arched entry, oddly it didn’t seem out of place on a Central Texas ranch. In the background stood a barn painted the same buttery hue, and the metal roof was red to match the tile roof of the house.
She took another sip of the strong coffee. What inspired the house? The things she’d learned about Dylan Quinn since meeting him didn’t jive with this place. This builder understood design and craftsmanship. The man who’d built such a beautiful home for his wife hadn’t been the drunk Mrs. Pratt had told her was freeloading off his sister.
He glanced at her watch. Damn, she had to hurry. The last thing she wanted was to be late for her appointment with Leon Ferguson. After shifting her Lexus into gear, she pulled away, but not before taking one last look at the house.
On the long drive back to Colton, she tried to piece together what she knew about Dylan. Mrs. Pratt was totally against her having anything to do with him. The older woman was convinced Charli’s interest in him stemmed from her studying to become a social worker.
Her mind wasn’t on the drive and she nearly missed her turn onto Highway 6 as the GPS dinged at her. As she turned onto the northbound lane and headed back to Colton, her thoughts went back to Dylan.
There had to be a reason for a man, who had built a home for his wife and served his country for thirteen years, to fall so far.
What had happened to Dylan Quinn, and why the hell couldn’t she stop thinking about him?
She left Highway 6 and turned down Oak Springs Road. The same country road went past her ranch. She paused before turning and stared at the elaborate wrought-iron sign over the gate of Oak Springs Ranch. Heading down the long drive, she finally put thoughts of Dylan out of her mind.
She stopped the car and peered out at the antebellum-styled mansion. Manicured lawn surrounded the veranda. White Greek columns circled the house and held a second floor balcony.
“Holy crap. Guess that’s what being an oil tycoon can buy you.”
She cut the engine and got out of the car. Her own ranch would look like this someday. A lake, the focal point at the front of the property, had a manicured edge with a large gazebo overlooking the dock. Grand oaks and pecan trees shaded the drive and the lawn surrounding the mansion.
Somehow this place seemed larger than hers.
She headed for the front door and took one last look around. “I can almost smell the money.”
The housekeeper led her into a formal parlor. The house had an air of wealth and privilege. Damned place reminded her of Hank’s house.
The first time she’d seen her grandfather’s home, she was ten days past turning fifteen and three days after her mother’s death. She blinked, but the memories wouldn’t relent. Before she could stop it, the painful scene from her past rushed her.
She stared out the window of the Silverado pickup at the hundreds of cattle grazing in the field. “You said we were on the Long Arrow. Where’s the house?”
“We’ve been driving on the ranch for the past two miles. The house is just around the next turn.”
She glanced at him. “Two miles? How big is this place?”
“Twenty-five-thousand acres.”
“Is my grandmother at the house?”
“No. She died last summer. You sure ask a lot of questions.”
She hadn’t spoken more than a handful of words until his plane, with her mother’s body and her precious few belongings in the cargo hold, landed at a local airstrip.
When the house came into view, she gasped at the size of the single-story. Later, she would count thirty-seven rooms.
He parked in the big ten-car garage where there were three sports cars and another pickup with the Monroe Farm Equipment logo painted on the side. Why did he need so many cars if he lived alone?
She followed her grandfather, Hank, out of the garage, down a hallway, and into the open foyer of the mansion. A chandelier made from a wagon wheel, with dozens of candle-like lights,