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CHAPTER TWO

A PROMISE MADE was a promise kept.

That was Addison McDowell’s credo.

It was the only reason she was at this damned party tonight. She’d promised her financial advisor and her attorney—her Texas advisor and her Texas attorney—that she’d show up, so she had.

Doing what you said you would do was The Proper Thing. And doing The Proper Thing was important. She’d stuck with that ever since she’d decided that she was an Addison, not an Adoré.

Girls who grew up in run-down trailer parks might be given that awful name, but she’d left those days far, far behind.

She had become all that the name Addison implied.

She was successful. Sophisticated. She owned a Manhattan condo. Well, she had a fat mortgage on one, anyway. She had a law degree from Columbia University. She dressed well.

Only one fly in the ointment the last few months.

Her reputation was better suited to an Adoré than an Addison, and wasn’t that one hell of a thing after all her efforts to escape that miserable trailer park and its sad heritage of silly, round-heeled women?

Addison raised her glass to her lips and took a sip of merlot.

If only Charlie had not left her that damned ranch.

If only he hadn’t died.

He’d been the best friend she’d ever had. The only friend she’d ever had. He hadn’t wanted her for her body, he’d wanted her for her intelligence, and to hell with what people thought.

Charles Hilton, the multimillion-dollar lawyer, had liked her. Respected her.

They’d begun as business associates, though she’d been only a junior member of his legal team, but as they’d gotten to know each other, Charlie had looked past the obvious: the glossy, dark hair she wore severely pulled away from her face; the silver eyes; the curvy figure she did her best to disguise within severely tailored suits.

Charlie had seen the real her, the one with intelligence and the determination to succeed. He’d become her mentor.

She hadn’t trusted his interest. Not at first. But as she’d gotten to know him, she’d realized that he loved her as the daughter he’d never had. In return, she’d loved him as the father she’d had and lost.

And when he’d grown frail and ill, she’d loved him even more because he’d needed her, and being needed was a wonderful feeling.

There had never been anything even remotely intimate between them, unless you counted rubbing his aching shoulders near the end of his life.

It was obscene even to consider.

But blogs and gossip columns didn’t care about truth, not when fiction was so much more juicy, not in Manhattan or, as it had turned out, not in Wilde’s Crossing, Texas.

She’d kept a low profile since coming to Wilde’s Crossing, but that didn’t mean a thing.

People watched her whenever she showed up in public.

She’d known tonight would be the same, no matter what the Wilde brothers said.

People would stare. Or try to be stealthy about it.

Either way, eyes would be on her.

“Wrong,” Travis Wilde had said.

Addison sipped at her wine.

The one who’d been wrong was Travis.

She was getting lots of looks. And, hell, maybe she deserved them.

She’d started out wearing a business suit. Too New York, she’d decided; she’d stand out like the proverbial sore thumb.

So she’d ditched the suit for jeans, a silk blouse and boots.

A glance in old man Chambers’s cracked bathroom mirror told her she looked like a New Yorker dressed for a Western costume party….

And wasn’t it amazing that she’d fallen into calling Charlie’s ranch, her ranch, by its former owner’s name the way everybody else still did?

Finally, she’d looked in the mirror and said, “To hell with it.”

The sound of her voice had set a mouse to scampering in the walls.

Good thing she wasn’t afraid of mice, she’d thought, or bugs, or the big snake she’d swept off the porch of the miserable pile of shingles she now owned.

She wasn’t afraid of anything.

That was what had taken her from Trailer Park, USA, to Park Avenue, New York City.

So she’d changed to a black silk Diane von Furstenberg wraparound dress. It was very ladylike until you noticed how low the neckline dipped, and how the silk clung to her when she moved. Black kid, sky-high Manolo Blahniks were the finishing touch.

Another look in the mirror and she’d tossed her head.

Stories about her had reached Wilde’s Crossing before she did.

When she’d questioned the Wildes, they’d both blushed.

The sight of grown men blushing had some charm, but Addison wasn’t interested in charm. She was just damned tired of people talking about her.

Tonight, no matter what she wore, people would stare. Why not give them something to stare at, never mind that her dress and stilettos wouldn’t have raised an eyebrow back home.

She’d suspected that most of the women would wear jeans or what she thought of as tea dresses—frilly, flowery prints that only looked good on six-year-olds.

Right on all counts, Addison thought now, as she swapped her empty wineglass for a full one from the tray of a passing server.

Right about the women’s clothes and the town’s attitude. The women were the real pains in the ass because they weren’t just judgmental, they were holier-than-thou.

Like the one watching at her right now.

Frilly dress? Check. Too much lipstick? Double check. And big hair. Did Texas wives not know that big hair looked good on Dolly Parton and nobody else?

Addison flashed the smile a cat might offer a mouse.

The woman flushed and looked away.

Pleased to meet you, too, Addison thought coldly, and then she also thought, Why did I come here tonight?

Because Travis and Caleb Wilde had asked her.

Back to square one.

They’d asked, and in a moment of uncharacteristic weakness, she’d told them she’d do it, she’d go to their brother’s homecoming party, which wasn’t supposed to be a party at all.

“Just family and a couple of old friends,” Caleb had said.

“Well, maybe one or two more,” Travis had added.

Right, Addison thought, with a mental roll of her eyes.

Just family and old friends. She should have known better. When Travis fell into that good-ole-boy drawl of his, anything was possible.

What looked like a zillion “old friends” had gathered in the enormous great room at El Sueño.

El Sueño. The Dream.

Addison hid a wry smile in her wineglass as she lifted it to her lips.

In Spanish or English, that was a pretty fanciful name for half a million acres of scrub, rolling grassland, flower and vegetable gardens, dusty roads, expensive horseflesh and gushing oil wells, but one of the things she’d discovered during the time she’d been here was that Texans could wax poetic about their land as easily as they could raise a sweat working it.

Even Charlie, who had not been a Texan at all, but like her was a born and bred Easterner, though from a very, very different background, even he had somehow let the poetic part draw him in.

Not the sweat part.

It was impossible to imagine Charlie had ever raised a sweat on anything more labor-intensive than his stock portfolio.

Addison sighed.

Perhaps if he had, if he’d flown down to take a hard look at the Chambers ranch, ridden its seemingly endless dusty acres instead of relying on a picture-book spread in a fancy real-estate catalogue, he wouldn’t have bought it.

But he had bought it, sight unseen, and died a week later.

Losing him had just about broken her heart—and then had come the shock of learning he’d willed her the ranch.

She’d done nothing about it for a while. Then, because the place had obviously been important to Charlie, she’d done what he hadn’t.

She’d strung together all the vacation time she hadn’t taken in two years, added this year’s allotment and flown down to see it.

What she’d found wasn’t a ranch at all, not if you watched old John Wayne movies on late-night TV.

The Chambers place was umpteen thousand acres of scrub, outbuildings that looked as if a strong wind would topple them, a ranch house that had its own wildlife population, half a dozen sorry-looking horses and not very much else.

Which was the reason she had the Wildes as her advisors and—

“Now, little lady, how come you’re drinkin’ red wine when there’s champagne flowin’ like a stream to the Rio Grande?”

A big man wearing an even bigger Stetson, a flute of champagne in each oversize paw, flashed her a big smile.

Oh God, she thought wearily, not again.

“Jimbo Fawcett,” he said. “Of the Fawcett Ranch.”

How could somebody manage to tuck an entire pedigree into six words? Another Jimbo Fawcett look-alike already had, with the clear expectation that she’d want to spend the rest of the evening listening to him explain—with some modesty but not much because, after all, this was Texas—how incredibly lucky she was that he’d picked her out of the herd.

Except for the Stetsons, big-shot New York attorneys and Wall Street tycoons did it much the same way, so she was used to it.

“How nice for you,” she said pleasantly.

“You jest got to be Addie McDowell.”

“Addison McDowell. Yes.”

Fawcett gave a booming laugh. “We’re not so formal down here, little lady.”

What the hell, Addison thought, enough was enough.

“Mr. Fawcett—”

“Jimbo.”

“Mr. Fawcett.” Addison gave him a bright smile. “In the next couple of minutes, you’re going to tell me that I’m new to Wilde’s Crossing and what a sad thing it is that we haven’t met before.”

Fawcett blinked.

“And I’m going to say yes, I’m new and we haven’t met because I’m not interested in meeting anyone, and then I’ll tell you that I prefer red wine and that I’m sure you’re a nice guy but I’m not interested in champagne or anything else. Got it?”

Fawcett’s mouth dropped open.

Addison took pity on the man and patted his arm.

“Thanks anyway,” she said, and she turned her back to him, wound her way through the crowd until she found an empty bit of wall space near a big Steinway grand piano and settled into it.

Dammit, she thought, glancing at her watch, how much longer until the local hero showed up? Five minutes more, and then—

“Why do I suspect you’re not having a good time?”

Addison turned around, ready to provide a sharp answer, but when she saw the tall, good-looking man who’d slipped up next to her, she fixed him with a narrow-eyed glare instead.

“Travis Wilde,” she said, “you owe me, big-time.”

“Well, that answers your question,” Caleb Wilde said as he joined them. “You suspect she’s not having a good time because she isn’t. Right, Addison?”

“Considering that I’ve spent the last months turning down invitations from the country club, the ranchers’ association, the ladies’ sewing league—”

“Not the sewing league,” Travis said in shocked tones.

“The sewing league,” Addison said, and when she saw the brothers’ mouths twitch, she relented, if only a little. “You said he would be here by eight.”

“Jacob.” Caleb cleared his throat. “That’s what we figured.”

“It’s almost eight-thirty. And there’s still no sign of the mystery man.”

“Jake’s not a mystery man,” Travis said quickly. “And he’ll be here. Just be patient.”

Addison made a face. The last few months, her patience had been in increasingly short supply.

“You need an expert to take a long, hard look at the Chambers place, figure out if it makes sense to fix it up before you put it on the market or not. In today’s economic climate—”

Addison held up her hand.

“I’ve heard this speech before.”

“It’s still valid. Jake’s recommendations could make hundreds of thousands of dollars’ difference to you.”

She could hardly scoff at that. Those Manhattan mortgage payments, the tuition loans …

Besides, the ranch had meant something to Charlie and he’d left it to her. That was a kind of obligation. She had to do the right thing with it, if only out of respect for his memory.

“Ten minutes. He’ll be here by then,” Caleb said. “Okay?”

“He’d better be,” Addison said, but she softened the words with a smile.

She could spare another ten minutes, partly because she liked and respected Caleb, her attorney, and Travis, her financial consultant—

And partly because she was curious.

She was increasingly certain the Wildes weren’t telling her all there was to tell about the mysterious Jacob.

She knew he was, or had been, in the army. That he’d been wounded. That he was some kind of hero. His brothers hadn’t said so but she’d heard the rumors from the one lonely cowboy who worked her ranch part-time. Caleb and Travis simply talked about his ability to assess the place.

“You sell it without his advice,” they’d said, “you’ll regret it.”

“Couldn’t someone else do it?” Addison had asked.

The brothers had exchanged a glance so quick she might not have noticed it if she hadn’t been looking at them from across her desk—old man Chambers’s desk—in what passed for the ranch office.

Addison’s eyebrows had risen. “What?”

“Nothing,” Caleb had said.

“Nothing at all,” Travis had added.

“Bull,” Addison had said calmly. “You’re up to something and I want to know what it is.”

Another of those quick looks. Then Travis had cleared his throat.

“Jake truly is the man you want, Addison.”

Addison had been tempted to point out that she didn’t want any man. She had a career she’d worked her tail off to obtain. But that wasn’t what he’d meant, and she knew it.

“He’s the best there is.”

“But?”

Travis had shrugged. “But, he’s not plannin’ on stayin’.”

“Here we go. The drawl. The smile. The famous Wilde charm—and you both know damned well how much good that will do you.”

She’d said it just lightly enough so the brothers had chuckled.

“Heck,” Travis had said, sitting back and crossing one boot-clad foot over the other, “it works with every other female in this part of Texas.”

“I bet,” Addison had said sweetly. “But I’m not from this part of Texas. I’m not from any part of Texas.” She’d paused for emphasis. “And I’m not ‘every other female,’ I’m your employer.”

“Our client,” Travis had said, his drawl as lazy as Caleb’s.

The brothers had grinned. So had Addison. It was a familiar routine and it still surprised her that she felt comfortable enough with them for relaxed banter.

“And because you’re our client,” Travis had said, “and we have your best interests at heart….”

“Try telling me all of it,” Addison had said. “Or I’ll put this place on the market tomorrow.”

The brothers had exchanged a long look. Then Caleb sighed.

“Jake’s been in the army.”

“So?”

“So, he was, ah, he was wounded. And he, ah, he’s not sure if he wants to stay at El Sueño or maybe move on. And—”

“And he needs a solid reason to stay,” Travis had said bluntly, no charm, no drawl, nothing but the cool voice of the financial advisor Addison had come to know and respect. “He knows your land almost as well as he knows ours. He’s smart, he’s pragmatic, and he was born knowing horses and ranching.”

“We promise you,” Caleb had said in that same no-nonsense way, “you won’t regret working with him.” And then, before she could say anything, he’d added, “Have you had any regrets, dealing with us?”

Thinking back to that conversation, Addison sighed, brought her glass to her lips and drank some more wine.

No. She most definitely had no regrets. She’d learned not just to like the Wildes, but to trust them.

Travis had been her financial advisor pretty much since she’d arrived in Wilde’s Crossing. Caleb had been her attorney close to the same length of time. Using a New York lawyer and a New York financial guru just hadn’t made much sense.

The point was, she took legal advice from one Wilde and financial advice from the other.

It might make sense to take ranching advice from the other.

Which was why she was here, tonight.

Travis had greeted her; he’d taken her on the obligatory rounds, introduced her to his three sisters.

Apparently, no one had told them that her relationship with their brothers was strictly professional.

Not that they hadn’t been pleasant, even gracious, but a woman could always tell when other women were sizing her up.

Listen, she’d almost said, you can stop worrying. I do not, repeat, do not intend to sleep with either of your brothers. They’re hunks, all right, and I like them, but I have no interest in getting involved with any man, no matter how handsome or sexy or rich or charming, not even if hell should freeze over.

She wasn’t interested in waiting another minute for the Hero to show up, either. The Wounded Hero, she reminded herself, but the wound could not have been much.

Jacob Wilde was a famous man’s son. He would have grown up rich and spoiled—girls from trailer parks knew the type. So, why on earth was she still standing around, waiting for a man she would undoubtedly dislike on—

“Jake?”

“Oh, my God, Jake!”

Someone had opened the front door ten or fifteen minutes ago. Now the entire Wilde crew was trying to fit through it at once.

The sisters were shrieking and bouncing like yo-yo’s. Caleb and Travis were laughing. The bunch of them exploded onto the porch, and the crowd moved in behind them for the show.

Addison sighed with resignation. Too late. She was stuck here, at least until she shook the hero’s hand, or maybe he’d be so engulfed by the crowd that she’d be able to slip out without anybody noticing….

And then Jacob Wilde stepped into the room.

The breath caught in her throat.

She had expected him to be good-looking.

He wasn’t.

He was—there was no other word for it—beautiful.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. A long, tautly muscled body, strong and straight in a uniform that bristled with ribbons. His hair was the color of midnight.

Corny, all of it, but true.

He had a face a sculptor might have chiseled.

A sculptor with a cruel sense of irony.

Because Jacob Wilde’s face was perfect….

Except for the black patch over one eye, and the angry, ridged flesh that stretched across the arch of his cheek beneath it.