Texas Tough (The Tylers of Texas 2)

“He always misses you. Just like I do.” In the darkness of the cab, Will allowed himself a smile. Even after twelve years, he and Tori had a lot to learn about being parents.

Lauren speared a morsel of steaming beef from the plate someone had set in front of her. Taking a bite, she forced herself to chew. She didn’t mind good barbecue, but this piece was tough enough to make her wonder if the steer had died of old age. And she could hardly spit it out in front of the guests who’d paid extra to share the round banquet table with the congressman.

“Nothing like good old-fashioned Texas barbecue,” her father was saying. “Now if only I could get my colleagues in the House to sit down to a meal like this, we could solve all the country’s problems in one afternoon!”

“And the next day you could invite the Senate!” Josh Hardesty, the governor’s stepson, glanced around the table, waiting for a response to his joke. Garn Prescott obliged him with a hoot of laughter. Her father was trying too hard, Lauren thought. For that matter, so was Hardesty.

Representing his stepfather at the fund-raiser, Josh Hardesty was handsome in an overblown way, his Armani suit and silk tie too formal for the countrified setting with hay bales and red-checked tablecloths. He had a way of raising his wrist to check the time on his diamond-studded gold Rolex, as if to display the vulgar piece for Lauren’s eyes. He’d arrived at the party in a red Maserati, and Prescott was practically drooling over him. Lauren was under strict orders to be gracious, in the hope of coaxing an extra digit onto his contribution check.

“So what do you think of Texas by now, Lauren?” Hardesty flashed a set of flawless veneers. He was leaning so close that Lauren could have counted the pores on his nose.

Lauren toyed with her food, pretending to eat. “I suppose it has its charms, but I’ve yet to discover them.” True, she thought. Sky Fletcher was one of the least charming men she’d ever met, but even here she couldn’t get him out of her thoughts.

“I’ll be in Lubbock for the next few days,” Hardesty said. “I’d be delighted to help you discover some of those charms you’re missing.”

“Thanks for the invitation, but I’m a working girl,” Lauren said. “I’m keeping the accounts for two different ranches. People are depending on me to get my work done.”

He shook his head. “I can’t understand why a pretty little thing like you would choose to be an accountant.”

“Why not? I’ve always been good with numbers, and I like the challenge of putting things in order.”

“But all you’d have to do is bat those gorgeous eyes at the right man and you’d be set for life. You could have anything you wanted.”

“Funny,” Lauren said, “that’s just what my father tells me.”

Prescott had made it clear that he was hoping for some sparks between his daughter and one of the state’s richest single men under fifty. Hardesty seemed interested, but he was far from her type. She would be polite and pleasant for as long as this dreary event lasted. Then she would slip away without giving him her phone number.

Tomorrow she would demand the payment she’d earned—her pick of any horse on the Prescott ranch.

Garn Prescott surveyed the banquet hall as the seventy-two-minute address from the forme

r Secretary of Agriculture ended. People were pulling out their chairs, standing up to stretch their cramped limbs. A few were already dashing for the exits. Lord, where had his staff dredged up the old dotard? He’d requested a speaker who could fire up an audience. Instead, the former cabinet member, who looked as if he’d served under Warren Harding, had put most listeners to sleep with his droning monotone. Too late, Prescott realized he should have hired a band with a singer to keep things lively. He couldn’t afford a celebrity, but there were groups out there who’d perform for the chance to be heard.

The crowd was up and milling now, some headed for the open bar, more leaving. On the far side of the vast room, Prescott glimpsed Lauren, a fetching sight in jeans, boots, and a western-style shirt. He’d noticed how the cameras flashed when she entered the hall on his arm. Now Josh Hardesty had cornered her, and the two appeared to be deep in conversation. If those two clicked, he would count the event a success. Otherwise it was a near fiasco. He’d be lucky to cover what he’d already paid for the hall rental and the damn-blasted caterer.

“Congressman.” The female voice, coming from somewhere behind his shoulder, recalled the taste of aged bourbon—rich and mellow, with a subtle kick. He turned to meet a pair of absinthe eyes framed by mascara-slathered lashes. The woman wasn’t young—well into her forties, he guessed. But there was a sensual quality about her that defied age. Her hair was dyed a flamboyant carmine, her makeup applied with a lavish hand, giving her face an exotic look that brought to mind some ancient Egyptian queen. Her black silk jumpsuit, worn with high-heeled red boots, hugged her generous curves.

“Have we met?” he asked, knowing he’d remember her if they had.

She gave him a slow smile. “Not until now. I just wanted to shake your hand and make a small personal contribution to your campaign.” She drew a plain white envelope from her purse and held it out to him. “Stella Rawlins. My phone number’s written on the inside flap of this envelope. Call me if you need more. Call me, in fact, if you need anything at all.”

Some instinct made him hesitate. She thrust the envelope into his hands. “Take it. No strings attached. I just want to see the best man win the nomination—and the election in November.”

The envelope was thick and heavy between Prescott’s fingers. He’d expected a check. This felt more like cash, probably small bills. Never mind, the lady meant well, and every little bit counted.

“Thank you,” he said, switching the envelope to his left hand and extending his right for the handshake. Her palm was warm, her firm grip lingering a few extra seconds.

“You’re very welcome.” She turned and walked away, her hips doing a little shimmy as she disappeared into the crowd.

Curious, but not wanting to be observed, Prescott made his way to the men’s room and shut himself inside a stall. Mindful of the phone number—not that he planned to contact the woman—he ran his index finger under the sealed flap and opened the envelope.

His pulse cartwheeled.

Inside was a thick bundle of hundred-dollar bills. Prescott’s hand quivered as he ruffled through them, keeping a mental count. There were two hundred of them, if he hadn’t lost track. Two hundred even.

Stella Rawlins had just handed him twenty thousand dollars cash—and told him to call her if he needed more.

Three days had passed, and Sky had yet to find the time for an afternoon trip to town. With drought conditions getting worse and no rain in the forecast, Will had ordered a crew up to the summer range to collect the cattle into one fenced pasture where the herd could be fed. The windmills pumped enough drinking water from the vast aquifer under the caprock to fill the tanks, but in the rainless heat the grass on the high plain was crumbling into dust. The cattle would need daily rations of hay to keep the animals from starving.