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It was like the fly chasing the spider

Kitt recognized the name on the business card, and she recognized the firm he represented. Mel Belyle, Corporate Attorney, Castle Enterprises, New York.

Castle Enterprises was the corporation created expressly to handle the housing project in Crystal Creek. And this was the man her boss had predicted would never speak to her.

Yet here, in all his glory, was Mr. Belyle himself, trying to pick her up. She began to sound him out. “So,” she said with a demure smile, “what takes you to Austin?”

“Business,” he said. “What about you?”

“I’m going to visit my aunt.” After all, it wasn’t a lie. “I haven’t seen her in ages. It’s a shame to be out of touch with family, don’t you think?”

For a split second his smile wavered. He didn’t answer her question. “So what do you do?”

She shrugged as if her job was of small interest. “I work for the Gilroy Group.” This was misleading, she knew. The Gilroy Group owned six magazines, but was far more famous for its other holdings, especially its television network.

His eyes kindled with mischief. “Gilroy? Are you connected with that Uptown Girls show?”

You lecher, Kitt thought. “That would be telling. I’m not going to discuss it until I know you much, much better.”

He leaned closer. “That can be arranged. What do you want to know?”

“Everything,” she said. “Tell me simply everything.”

Dear Reader,

Things are changing in Crystal Creek, Texas. The question is, who will decide the future of this fabled land? Will it be the McKinneys, its fiery leading family, determined to defend the heritage of the Hill Country?

Or will it be the mysterious outsider, Brian Fabian? He commands a greater fortune than anyone else in Crystal Creek—and he has a secret weapon. That weapon is negotiator Mel Belyle, brilliant, charming, handsome—and ruthless.

Mel comes to Crystal Creek with a score to settle and a fight he intends to win. But he hasn’t counted on a certain redheaded reporter. Kitt Mitchell is a spitfire with an attitude as big as Texas itself.

This is the twenty-ninth book in the series about Crystal Creek. I’m proud to be taking part in its ongoing story and hope you enjoy visiting A Little Town in Texas.

With warmest regards,

Bethany Campbell

A Little Town in Texas
Bethany Campbell

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Linda Bitcon, a friend for all seasons.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

“SEND IN THE SPITFIRE,” Heywood Cronin said to his secretary. “The whirlwind. You know which one—from staff writing. The little redhead.”

“Kitt Mitchell? Yes, sir,” said Miss Lundeen.

“Writes like an angel,” muttered Cronin. “Dresses like a bag lady.”

“Oh, no, sir,” Miss Lundeen said mildly. “She just likes to be casual.”

“Casual,” Cronin said with a snort. “She’d be a pretty girl if she’d dress up. O tempora O mores. That’s Latin, Miss Lundeen. Do you know what it means?”

“Yes, sir. O, the times, O, the manners.”

“Anyway,” Cronin said, “send her in.”

Miss Lundeen exited with such speed and silence it was as if she evaporated. Cronin looked at the picture of his wife, framed in platinum, on his desk. She was in her wedding gown, and a damn fine gown it was. He missed the 1950s when women had waists and wore pearls and full skirts and exciting shoes with pointed toes and high heels.

He chased the thought from his mind. That was looking backward. It was thinking like an old geezer. He was a man who looked forward, and that’s why journalism awards half-covered his office. He intended to collect a few dozen more before he cashed in his chips. It was one of the reasons he cultivated young writers like the spitfire.

In a few moments, Miss Lundeen announced her. “Kitt Mitchell, sir.”

And in she walked. Cronin fought against wincing. The woman wore cargo pants and a pale blue camp shirt. Her shoes made her look like she was going to climb the Alps.

She was a petite woman, barely over five feet tall, and she was slight rather than shapely. Still, Cronin thought, she was a fetching little thing. Maybe she dressed like Indiana Jones to fend off unwanted male attention. She could attract men like a magnet—if she wanted.

Her most startling feature was her long, flame-red hair. Her skin was fair, her eyes were blue, and her eyebrows and lashes auburn. She was pretty enough, but Cronin always found himself noticing the vivacity in her face before her actual features. In motion she was swift as a hummingbird.

She had a reputation for being sassy, of not being afraid of the devil himself. This did not mean that Cronin did not make her nervous. He made everyone on his staff exceedingly nervous; he considered it part of his job.

“Sit down, Mitchell.” He ordered, he did not invite.

Kitt Mitchell gave him a measuring look and sat down in the leather chair before his desk. His desk was mounted on a dais so he could stare down, lordlike, upon whomever sat in that chair.

She returned his gaze with wary coolness. “Miss Lundeen said you wanted to see me.”

He laced his fingers together and peered harder at her. She didn’t squirm, not one whit. Was he losing his touch? He’d wipe that calm off her face.

“Yes,” he said, hitting her with it immediately. “I’m going to give you the assignment of your life.”

Her fair skin went paler. Her blue eyes got wider.

“This story won’t just change your career. It will make your career.”

She seemed speechless. Good. Inwardly he smirked.

“This is big stuff, Mitchell,” Heywood Cronin told her. “It’s got everything—money, mystery, power struggles. Sex. Revenge. But most of all, human interest. Your specialty.”

He sat back with satisfaction and watched his words sink in.

DELIGHT FLOODED KITT. Suddenly Heywood Cronin, elderly, grizzled, balding and bent, looked as radiant as a spirit guide to her.

Then he squinted through his thick glasses and smiled his thin smile. “Go home and pack. Monday you leave. For Crystal Creek, Texas.”

Crystal Creek? Kitt felt as if the office ceiling had crashed down on her. Dismay swept away her delight. Crystal Creek was the last place in the universe she wanted to go. Heywood Cronin no longer seemed luminously benevolent. He seemed like a capricious troll playing games with her life.

“Well?” he demanded, leaning toward her over his vast desk.

Say something! Kitt commanded herself. She cleared her throat. “Well, Mr. Cronin, you see…I—I’m from Crystal Creek. It could cause a conflict. It would be hard for me to write objectively about it.”

Cronin hunched lower, as if crouching for attack. “I want objectivity—up to a point. I also want feeling. Passion. A town ripped in twain, blah, blah, and so on.”

“But—but, you see—there could be a problem—”

“No,” Cronin said, shaking a bony forefinger. “You see. What you call a problem, I call opportunity. You can write about this place because you’re of this place. You tap into its deepest psyche. It’s your old hometown. The site of your fondest childhood memories. And so forth.”

Kitt blinked hard. “You mean you knew I grew up there?”

He laughed the laugh that was famous at Exclusive magazine. It was described as the gurgle of ice water pouring over a grave. “Of course. That’s why I picked you.”

“Oh,” Kitt said tonelessly. She’d hoped he’d chosen her for her ability.

“That,” he said with a dismissive wave, “and the fact you can write. I assume you’ve lots of connections in this one-horse town? Relatives? Old friends and neighbors? People who’ll pour out their hearts to you?”

Kitt drew a deep breath, mind whirling. She didn’t think of Crystal Creek as her hometown; she tried not to think of it at all. When she’d left, she’d meant to leave forever. People opening their hearts to her? Hardly.

But—there was Nora.

Ah, yes, thank God there was Nora. A lifeline back then. And possibly a lifeline now. “I know people, yes,” Kitt said vaguely.

“Then you know what this story’s about? Eh? Do you?”

Kitt’s mind spun more swiftly. “It has to be about Brian Fabian,” she guessed. “About his buying land there. To build some megahousing development.”

Cronin sank back into his chair and folded his hands over his vest. “Ha. You do have sources. Yes, Brian Fabian. He’s always news. He sells magazines, by God.”

So that was Cronin’s angle, Kitt thought. If Brian Fabian was interested in Crystal Creek, so was Exclusive magazine. Cronin knew what fascinated the public, and he played that fascination like a magic flute.

Cronin’s eyes stayed fixed on her, gauging her. “Tell me what you know about Fabian.”

Kitt told him what she knew, what everybody knew—next to nothing. Fabian was a billionaire and almost total recluse. No known photo existed of him. Information about his private life usually proved to be false or misleading or both.

Facts about his business ventures were just as elusive. They were hidden in a maze of mergers, partnerships, shell corporations and deals of dizzying complexity.

“I’d guess he’s the mystery in the story,” Kitt mused. “And the money and power.” Then she added, “And probably the sex.”

One thing certain about Brian Fabian was his appetite for beautiful women. But none of these women ever talked about him. Never a one said so much as a word. His affairs remained as secret as everything else.

Cronin gave her a crooked, tight-lipped smile. “The sex? Not Fabian—this time. Sex came into the story with the lawyer he sent there to buy land. Nick Belyle. He fell for some local Venus and did the unthinkable. He violated Fabian’s confidence. He told about the plans for the development.”

Kitt said, “I heard.”

Nora had sent a long, excited letter about it. At the time, Kitt had given it little thought. So Fabian wanted a few thousand acres in Texas for some harebrained housing development—so what? For him such a project would be no more important than a mere whim, an expensive toy.

“That lawyer,” Cronin said, tapping his mahogany desktop, “let the cat out of the bag. And it was a rabid wild cat. Fabian wants to start a ‘planned’ community. The folks in your old neighborhood want to stop it.”

It’s not my old neighborhood, she wanted to retort. But she said, “I heard that, too.”

“A clan named McKinney’s leading the battle. Know ’em?”

Kitt’s body stiffened. J. T. McKinney owned the biggest ranch near Crystal Creek, and the McKinneys were the most important family in the county. Kitt knew more about them than she cared to remember, more than she dared to remember.

But she let her face betray nothing. “Yes. I know—most of them.”

“They’re stubborn, and they’re full of fight,” Cronin said, watching her expression closely. “They’ve got money and power. One of them’s out of the country—Cal—but the rumor is he’s coming back for this. Of course, next to Fabian, they’re small potatoes. Nothing, really.”

Cal’s name hit her like a physical blow, but Kitt didn’t flinch. She was too proud. The McKinneys were part of her distant past, thank God. Especially Cal. But to go back to Crystal Creek and write about them? About him? Her nerves jangled in protest.

She shook her head. “If you want a story on the McKinneys—”

Cronin waved his hand negatively. “No, no. They’re only one part. It’s the whole town—the whole county. It’s split. Some want the development. Some don’t. A house divided against itself. That’s the drama.”

Kitt allowed herself a skeptical smile. “But to fight Brian Fabian—”

“Yes,” Cronin said with pleasure. “A classic David and Goliath story. Except, of course, David gets his brains bashed out. Creamed. Murdered.”

Kitt kept her face carefully blank.

“Hopeless cause,” Cronin mused. “Idiotic actually. But valiant. I want both sides of the story, of course. Part of your job is to give the reader the point of view of the underdogs. Those kindly folks who live and love in your hometown. Their way of life ending forever. Heartrending.”

Inwardly Kitt squirmed. Did Cronin just want sob sister stuff from her? She was a better writer than that. Furthermore, even if the McKinneys weren’t the sole players, they were involved. She couldn’t help it—the fact made her profoundly uneasy. “I see,” she said without enthusiasm.

“Do you?” he challenged. “There’s something you haven’t asked. I expected more from you, Mitchell. Why haven’t you asked about the revenge part?”

Kitt squared her shoulders and tried to fake him. “I was about to. My sources—” she meant Nora, of course “—never mentioned such a thing.”

He steepled his fingers and peered over them, eyes glittering. “That’s because your sources don’t know yet. And you’re not to tell them. You’re going there to gather information—not leak it.”

Her chin jerked up defiantly. She’d never leaked a story, never purposely influenced one, and she never would.

Cronin smiled at her reaction. “Here’s the nitty-gritty. Brian Fabian wants more land. And he’s so incensed at his turncoat lawyer—”

“Nick Belyle,” furnished Kitt.

“—that he’s sending down the man’s own brother to finish the job.”

Kitt’s interest shot up several notches. “His own flesh and blood?”

“Yes. His younger brother. Mel. Ruthless man, I’m told. I’ve had research prepare a folder of information for you on each of them.”

Kitt narrowed her eyes. “Brian Fabian’s setting brother against brother? Like…the Civil War?”

“Yes. It’s quite nasty. I like it,” said Mr. Cronin.

Kitt didn’t. “What kind of a man would go gunning after his own brother? There must be more to this feud than just company loyalty. When I talk to him—”

“You won’t. He won’t,” Cronin said. “If Mel Belyle opens his mouth, it’ll only be to bite your head off. Fabian hates the press.”

“I could try—” Kitt began.

“Forget it,” ordered Cronin. “I repeat. Mel Belyle will not talk. Neither will his brother. They’ve both signed confidentiality agreements. You’ll have to rely on those good country people, your neighbors.”

Again Kitt ached to object. These people were not her neighbors, and she’d turned her back on them long ago—with good reason. And there was the very real question of how objective she could be. This worried her. She should shock Cronin and tell him she didn’t want this story.

But then Cronin said the magic words. “Do a good job of this,” he said silkily, “and you’ll be promoted from staff writer to contributing editor.”

Her misgivings vanished as if a lightning bolt had sizzled them out of her brain. Contributing editor? For a promotion like that, she would cover a story in the hottest part of hell.

EVERY DAY AFTER WORK when the weather was decent, Kitt went for a run in Central Park. Then she showered, nuked a frozen dinner and settled down to read.

She unplugged the phone because men sometimes called, and recently she wasn’t in a mood to bother with them. She was currently between boyfriends, a state she didn’t mind a bit. It was restful.

Now, wearing her ratty bathrobe, she flopped onto her sofa and opened the folder on the Belyle brothers. True to Fabian form, the information about them was scant.

There were actually three brothers, and their widowed mother had moved with them from Texas to New York. She’d worked for Brian Fabian as a cleaning lady or maid. Accounts differed, but he’d befriended her.

All three sons had gone to law school, and all three had taken jobs with Fabian’s firm. Rumor said that Fabian had been a patron to them.

Nick Belyle, the brother who’d defected, had gone to Harvard. Mel, the one being sent to fight him, had gone to Yale. Research had provided copies of their transcripts. Both had A averages. Kitt gave a grudging whistle of approval—these two should be able to wage a hell of a battle.

Mel made the gossip columns from time to time, dating models. Fabianesque, that appetite for beautiful women. Otherwise, the brothers kept their private lives private. That, too, was in Fabian’s mode.

Until Nick settled in Texas, he’d kept on the move for the corporation, living in a dozen different places. Mel stayed based in New York. His address was fancy. Very fancy.

And that was it. There were a few boyhood and teenage snapshots of Nick. None of Mel. Also missing was any mention of either brother’s hobbies, clubs, political affiliations—nothing. Kitt closed the folder, wishing the research department had dug more deeply.

She was going to have to do her own detective work and find the details herself—starting now. She would call Nora in Crystal Creek.

Nora was her aunt, but the word aunt always sounded august and elderly to Kitt. Nora was neither. Nora was thirty-three, just five years older than Kitt. She was bright, funny, down-to-earth, and generous.

Nora had made only one mistake in her life, and it had been disastrous. As a sixteen-year-old girl, she’d got pregnant and married a man who’d thrown all her dreams offtrack.

Nora had grown up wanting one thing: to be a teacher. After her divorce, she’d sweated blood to finish college. She’d married again, a good man. She’d even taught for a while, but circumstances had seemed to conspire against her.

Now, instead of teaching, Nora had a dead-end job. She worked fifty weeks a year, six days a week in a cow town café and managed a tatty little motel, too. Kitt shook her head at the waste.

She dialed Nora’s home number. She listened to the phone ring and thought of Crystal Creek. It still seemed ironic to be going back, but perhaps, at last, it was time. A feeble ghost or two might still haunt her, but this would be her chance to lay them to rest.

When Nora answered, she hooted with surprise to hear Kitt. “Kitt-Kat!” she cried. “Can you read minds? I was just thinking of you. I loved that piece you wrote about the little girl who plays chess.”

Kitt thanked her, feeling the pinch of guilt. Nora followed Kitt’s career proudly and read every issue of Exclusive. She sent notes of praise and funny cards and newsy letters, but Kitt was usually too busy to answer at length. Now and then she dashed off a postcard or an e-mail. It was not that she didn’t love Nora, but…

She paused, picturing Nora’s pretty face and blue-gray eyes. How often in the past had she turned to her, a girl barely older than herself, for comfort? Now she was turning to her again—but for reasons of ambition.

Kitt took a deep breath. “Listen, Nora, I’m coming down there next week. On Monday. I hope it’s not too short a notice.”

“Here?” Nora sounded delighted. “That’s great! I can’t wait to see you. Good grief, how long has it been?”

“Twelve years,” Kitt said. Another guilty twinge stung her, and she tried not to think of her long absence.

“Twelve years,” Nora said in wonder. “It’s not possible. It can’t be.”

“The prodigal returns,” Kitt said, trying to make a joke of it.

“It’s about time,” laughed Nora. “I was starting to think you got too citified. You wouldn’t claim us any more.”

“I’ve got an assignment,” said Kitt, trying to sound casual. “To write about Crystal Creek. The current troubles. You know, that whole land grab thing with Brian Fabian.”

For a moment, Nora went strangely silent. At last she said, “Write about it? I don’t know. Folks around here might not like it….”

Kitt made her voice conciliatory. “We’ll talk about it when I get there, okay? The main thing is I get a chance to see you. It’s been so long…I mean, I can still come, can’t I? Even if I’m on assignment?”

This time Nora didn’t hesitate. “You’re always welcome,” she said with warmth. “And I want you to stay with us. At Chez Slattery. I insist.”

It was Kitt’s turn to pause. For the first time since that afternoon she had a strong rush of apprehension about the McKinneys.

Nora was married to the McKinneys’ foreman. She lived within sight of the main house. For Kitt, it was uncomfortably close, too close.

“That’s good of you, but I shouldn’t. I mean, if the people in town don’t like what I write, they could hold it against you.”

“I know you’re always fair,” Nora said loyally. “That’s one of the best things about your articles. You put emotion into them, but they’re fair. Really, stay with us—please.”

“No,” Kitt insisted. “It wouldn’t be in my best interest, either. If I stay with you, it’ll look as if I’ve taken sides before I’ve even started.”

Kitt drew in her breath and held it. What she was saying was sound in journalistic principle. But she also could not bear spending a week or more living on the McKinneys’ land. Suddenly the ghosts of her past did not seem so few or so feeble.

Nora sighed. “I can understand that. I’d certainly never want to compromise the integrity of your story. But you can spend time with us—can’t you? You can’t work all the time.”

“You’ll be the first person I’ll come see,” promised Kitt. “I’ll drive straight to your house. Won’t even check into the hotel first. The old hotel—you said they remodeled it?”

“You won’t recognize it. You know that you could stay for free at the motel, instead,” Nora said ruefully. “But it’d hardly be doing you a favor. We’re putting in a new heating and air-conditioning system. It’s a mess.”

“No, it’s better I stay on neutral ground,” Kitt replied.

Nora laughed. “Oh, Kitt—these days there is no neutral ground in Crystal Creek. But it’ll be a kick to have you home.”

Home. The word almost froze Kitt. She tried to shake off the cold, empty feeling. New York was where she lived now, and she wanted and needed no other place to call home.

She pushed the emotion away and got back to her job. “The McKinneys,” she said with seeming casualness, “they’re leading the fight against Fabian?”

“J.T.’s the president of a citizens’ group. It’s running him ragged. I wish Cal could get home, but he’s tied up in business in Australia.”

He’s not there yet. Good, Kitt thought with a wave of relief. But he would soon be back—Cronin had said he would.

Kitt made herself press on. “Is there any word of Fabian making another move down there?” She knew, of course, that he was about to.

“We hope not,” Nora said. “J.T.’s got about all he can handle. He’s got Fabian tied up in lawsuits for the moment. And all the major ranchers have refused to sell any more land. But anything might happen. J.T. doesn’t need any nasty surprises.”

“I see,” Kitt said noncommittally. She couldn’t warn Nora that just such a nasty surprise was on the way, and it would come in the form of a man named Mel Belyle.

IN CRYSTAL CREEK the next day, Nora realized that Kitt’s phone call had sent a strange restlessness tingling through her.

The Longhorn Coffee Shop was languid, enjoying a rare Saturday morning lull. Nora savored the quiet and looked out the front window at the blue sky and sunshine and the strolling people.

This was the first time in two long weeks that the sky had been bright and clear. Every day had brought clouds that sprinkled, rained, or poured down storms. Suddenly, she yearned with all her heart to join those people out in the beautiful sunlight and be free, like them.

What would she do if she had a Saturday all to herself? A whole day to do anything she wanted? She leaned her elbows on the windowsill, giving herself up to this sinful fantasy. For starters, there were books to be read, tempting stacks of them, seductive heaps of them…

The crash of shattering glass hurtled her back to reality. Nora straightened, squaring her shoulders. She was training a new waitress, LaVonda Pollack. “Vonnie?” she called apprehensively.

The girl’s voice, nervous, came from the kitchen. “It was only an empty bottle. I’m cleaning it up. Sorry.”

“It’s all right. Don’t worry.” Nora sighed and pushed a hand through her ash-brown hair. Then she busied herself readying for the lunch hour rush. She had tables to wipe, fresh place mats to put down, condiments to restock.

Nora’s regular assistant, Kasey, was on vacation. Her other waitress, Shelby, had just gotten married, and Nora had been lucky to get a replacement—even if it was Vonnie.

Finding good, steady help for the café was hard. The hours were long, the pay only adequate, and the waitresses had to count on tips to make a decent living. Nora missed Shelby, and she envied her. Shelby had gone back to college for her master’s degree.

Sometimes in her heart of hearts, Nora still wished for life without the Longhorn. But the place was hers, and she was lucky to have it. Once the café had almost sold, but the deal had gone sour at the last moment, and Nora took that as a sign. It belonged to her and she belonged to it. There was no escaping and no use complaining.

The door opened, its bell jingling, and her vague discontent fled. When she saw who entered, her heart flew up in happiness.

Three tall men stood in the entryway. All wore Stetsons, western-cut shirts, jeans and expensive boots. Each was handsome, but in a different way. It was J. T. McKinney with both his sons, not only Tyler—but Cal.

The sight of Cal dizzied her with happiness. He and his family had been gone for months. She threw herself into Cal’s arms, half-laughing, half-crying, hugging and being hugged. Cal laughed out loud, Tyler gave a tight smile, and J.T. sighed as if in resignation.

“Cal,” she said in disbelief. “When did you get back?”

“This mornin’,” he said and whirled her around. Then he stopped and beamed the smile that showed his killer dimples. “Lord, is it possible? You’re prettier than ever. Got a kiss for me, sweet thing?”

Then he was bending, his lips firm and affectionate against her cheek. “Mmmwha!” he said, drawing back slightly.

She drank him in. Next to her husband and son, she loved Cal McKinney more than anyone else in the world.

He was as irresistible as ever, his hazel eyes just as full of high spirits. He had his hat brim tipped at a cocky angle, and though he was in his thirties now, he still had his boyish, sexy, carefree air.

He grinned again. “That worthless husband of yours has gone off and left you alone today, the fool?”

Nora hooked her arms around his neck. Her husband, Ken, was J.T.’s foreman and Cal’s best friend. “Ken’s in Medina. He should be back by tonight. Oh, Cal—it’s so good to have you home.”

“Good to be home. Mighty good.”

“And the rest of the family?” she asked. “They’re here?”

“Serena and the twins? Couldn’t go nowhere without ’em, could I? They’re sleeping at Daddy’s. It was a long trip. I hope those twins sleep a week. Ever been on a plane thirty-six hours with twins? Close to hell as I ever want to get.”

She laughed and led him to the nearest booth. “Let me get you some coffee. Or are you too wired?”

“Never too wired for your coffee, darlin’. Or your cheesecake. I’ve been thinkin’ of your cheesecake for the last three thousand miles. It was all that kept my spirits up. You got pumpkin?”

“I do. The first of the season. You want it with whipped cream?”

Cal closed his eyes in mock ecstasy. “Yes. Say it again. It’s like you’re talkin’ dirty.”

She gave him a playful swat. She turned to Cal’s father. “And what can I get you, J.T.?”

“I wondered if you were ever going to notice me,” J.T. drawled.

Nora laughed. “I always notice you. You’re not an easy man to ignore.”

“Except when he’s around,” J.T. said with a rueful nod at Cal.

Cal looked amused, but his brother, Tyler, didn’t smile.

J.T. said, “Give me black coffee with no caffeine and a piece of gingerbread. But no whipped cream.”

Cal patted his father’s chest over the heart. “Gotta take good care of that ticker, Daddy.”

“I learned that the hard way,” J.T. said, pushing the sugar bowl farther away. Almost ten years ago he’d had a major heart attack.

“And you,” Nora said to Tyler, “you’ll have black coffee, skim milk on the side and a plain donut.”

Tyler nodded.

“You still have that same thing?” Cal asked in disbelief.

“Yep,” said Tyler.

“You don’t ever change it?”

“Nope,” said Tyler.

“God,” Cal said, shaking his head. “You’re so predictable.”

Tyler gave him a level look. “So in your way,” he said, “are you.”

“Ah,” said J.T. “The sound of quibbling. How I’ve missed it. Family’s a wonderful thing. Isn’t it, Nora?”

“The best,” she said. She looked at the three of them fondly.

J. T. McKinney owned the biggest ranch in the county. He was in his early sixties now, but still straight and tall. His thick hair was silver, and although time had carved lines in his face, women said he was as handsome as ever—and some said he was even more so.

Tyler, the black-haired elder son, resembled his father, with the same dark eyes and stubborn jaw. Nora knew that he was a good man, but his feelings often ran too deep and silently for his own good.

And Cal—unlikely as it was, Cal was now a golden boy. Tyler had graduated from college with honors. Cal had been kicked out with multiple dishonors. Like a dutiful son, Tyler went back to the Double C to work with his father. Cal hit the rodeo circuit and spent the next ten years raising merry hell without wasting a thought on responsibility.

Then Tyler had a brainchild. He studied hard and toiled even harder to turn almost a thousand acres of Double C land into a vineyard and establish a winery. He did everything by the book, with science and forethought.