Lone Star Nights. Delores Fossen
a guy who likes women.”
“A guy who sleeps around. A lot.” She hadn’t needed to add a lot to make it a complete zinger.
“Rein in your stereotypes, Doc.” While she was doing that, he’d rein in his temper. And he’d do something about that blasted tat.
Lucky grabbed the felt-tip pen from the table next to the visitor’s book, and he got to work.
“What are you doing?” Cassie asked.
“Fixing it.” Not exactly a professional job, but he made a big smudgy i out of the e and an e out of the i.
Cassie leaned in closer. “Huh. I never noticed it was misspelled.”
Lucky looked at her as if she’d sprouted an extra nose. “How could you not notice that?”
She shrugged. “I’m not that good at spelling. I mean, who is, what with spell-checkers on phones and computers?”
“I’m good at it,” he grumbled. So that made two skills. Spelling and bull riding. At least he succeeded at the spelling more than 30 percent of the time.
Cassie stepped back, looked around the room. “I need to find the funeral director and then call the hospital and find out if Gran left me any instructions. A note or something.”
Lucky patted his pocket. “She gave me a letter.”
Cassie eyed the spot he’d patted, which meant she’d eyed his butt. “Did she say anything about me in it?”
“I’m not sure. I haven’t read it yet.” And darn it, the look she gave him was all shrink, one who was assessing his mental health—or lack thereof. “I was going to wait until after the service.” Except it was as clear as a gypsy’s crystal ball that there wasn’t going to be an actual service.
“Well, can you look at it now, just to see if she mentions me?” She sounded as though she was in as much of a hurry as Logan.
Lucky wished he could point out that not everything had to be done in a hurry, bull riding excluded, but he was just procrastinating. Truth was, as long as the letter was unread, it was like having a little part of Dixie Mae around. One last unfinished partnership between them.
He huffed, and since he really didn’t want to explain that “little part of Dixie Mae” thought, he took out the letter and opened it. One page, handwritten in Dixie Mae’s usual scrawl.
Cassie didn’t exactly hover over him, but it was close. She pinned her chocolate-brown eyes to him, no doubt watching for any change in expression so she could use her therapy skills to determine if this was good or bad.
Dear Lucky and Cassie...
That no doubt changed his expression. “The letter’s addressed to both of us.” He turned it, showing her the page. “Dixie Mae didn’t mention that when she gave it to me at the hospital.”
Cassie took it from him, and Lucky let her. Mainly because he really didn’t want to read what was there since it hadn’t gotten off to such a great start.
“‘Dear Lucky and Cassie,’” she repeated. “‘I need a favor, one I know neither of you will refuse. I’ve never asked either of you for anything, but I need to ask you now. Call Bernie Woodland, a lawyer in Spring Hill, and he’ll give you all the details.’”
Cassie flipped the letter over, looking for the rest of it, but there was nothing else. “What kind of favor?”
Lucky had to shake his head. He’d figured it had something to do with the rodeo business, but now that Dixie Mae had included Cassie, maybe not. Cassie had never participated in the rodeo, or in her grandmother’s finances for that matter.
He was also confused as to why Dixie Mae would have used Bernie for this. Dixie Mae no longer lived in Spring Hill. Hadn’t for going on ten years. Her house was in San Antonio, and she had a lawyer on retainer there. Why hadn’t she used him instead of Bernie?
“Did she say anything when she gave you the letter?” Cassie asked.
It wasn’t hard to recall this part, either. “She said a man wouldn’t be much of a man to deny an old dying woman her last wish.”
Remembering her words had Lucky feeling another flutter. Not a sexual one like with Cassie, but one that sent an unnerving tingle down his bruised spine and tailbone.
If it had been a simple request, Dixie Mae would have just told him then and there on her death bed, rather than using her final breath on the bull remark. Instead she’d used the dying card to get him to agree to some unnamed favor, and that meant this could be trouble.
Cassie must have thought so, too, because some of the color drained from her cheeks, and she pulled out her phone again. “I’ll call the lawyer.”
She stepped away from the coffin. Far away. In fact, Cassie went all the way to the back of the room, and, pacing behind the last row of chairs, she made the call.
Lucky was about to follow and pace right along with her, but his own phone buzzed. Because he was hoping Cassie would soon have some info on the favor, he was ready to let the call go to voice mail, but then he saw the name on the screen.
Angel.
What the hell? He wasn’t the sort to believe in ghosts and such, but if anyone could have found a way to reach out from beyond the grave, or the coffin, it would have been Dixie Mae.
Lucky hit the answer button and braced himself in case this was about to turn into a moment that might make him scream like a schoolgirl.
“Lucky,” the caller said. It was a woman all right but definitely not Dixie Mae. This voice was sultry, and he was about 60 percent sure he recognized it.
“Bella?” he asked.
“Who else?” she purred.
Well, she hadn’t been at the top of the list of people he expected would call themselves Angel, that’s for sure. Bella was more like a being from the realm opposite to the one where angels lived. Lucky had met her about three months ago after a good bull ride in Kerrville, but he hadn’t seen her since.
“I expected you to call me before now. Naughty boy,” Bella teased.
Now, that label fit. They had engaged in some rather naughty things during their one night together. But he’d never intended for it to be anything other than a one-nighter. And Lucky had made that clear, with very specific words—just this once.
He glanced back at Cassie. She was still talking on the phone. Or rather listening, because she didn’t seem to be saying much at all. Unlike Bella.
“Did you hear me?” Bella asked.
No, he hadn’t, but Lucky had his own stuff to ask her. “How’d you get my number? And who’s Angel?”
“Angel’s my stage name, remember?”
Oh, yeah. Now he did, thanks to her memory jogging. Bella aka Angel Bella was a wannabe actress moonlighting as a cocktail waitress at the Blue Moon Bar.
“When you were asleep, I added my number to your contact list,” she explained. “And I put your number in my phone to make sure we stayed in touch. Like now, for instance. I remember you saying you’re from Spring Hill, and guess who’s passing through town right now?”
Lucky didn’t think that was a trick question. “Look, Bella, this isn’t a good time. I’m at a friend’s funeral.”
“Oh.” She paused and repeated that “oh” again. “Well, darn. I’d really hoped to see you. Maybe in an hour or two? I could...console you.”
He bit back a groan. “Sorry, but I’m just not up to a good consoling.”
Especially Bella’s version of it. And especially not now. Cassie had started to talk, and though body language could be deceiving, he thought she might be arguing