Texas Tough (The Tylers of Texas 2)

Her boot stomped the gas pedal. Garn Prescott might be an abrasive, manipulating tyrant, but he was her father and he was in trouble. Wherever he was, she needed to be there for him.

Garn Prescott sat at the massive walnut desk in his study, gazing at the portrait on the far wall—a portrait of his father wearing a Stetson and holding a coiled bullwhip in one hand. Ferguson Prescott had been a brick of a man—tough, stubborn, and cunning. As his parents’ only surviving child, Prescott had never felt he was man enough to win his father’s approval. If that portrait could talk, he could just imagine what Old Ferg might say.

You’ve got nobody to blame for this mess but yourself, you lily-livered fool. You must’ve been thinkin’ with your dick when you let that female tramp lead you down the road. Well, this time there’ll be no gittin’ up and dustin’ yourself off. You’re finished, boy. I’m ashamed to call you my own flesh and blood. Hell, a dumb-ass like you doesn’t deserve to live!

Prescott poured another three fingers of bourbon in his glass and emptied it down his throat. He was as drunk as he’d ever been in his life, but an ocean of liquor couldn’t drown his disgrace. He should’ve known what Stella was the first time she’d walked up to him and held out an envelope full of cash. Now it was too late. He was ruined.

Glancing outside between the narrow slats of the closed blinds, he could see the news vans and gangs of reporters that crowded the front lawn. Like vultures in the afternoon heat, they were waiting to pounce on him as soon as he showed his face. Too bad. They could damn well wait all day before they’d get any satisfaction from him.

He poured the last trickle of bourbon out of the bottle, emptied the glass, and set it on the desk. That desk had been his father’s, as had the vintage Colt .45 Peacemaker that lay next to his hand. The gun was a classic. At least Ferg would approve of that.

One shot would end it all—the humiliation, the scandal, the misery of growing old and weak. Lauren would get all he had, which wasn’t a lot by Texas standards but enough to get by. His daughter wouldn’t mourn, at least not for long. Why should she? What kind of father had he ever been to the girl?

And Stella? Hell, he’d strangle her with his bare hands if he could. But that wasn’t going to happen. She would go on as always, weaving her webs like a spider to catch more hapless flies like him.

His father’s stolid features glared down at him from the gilded frame. Ferguson Prescott could forgive sin. But he couldn’t forgive stupidity. Do it! His expression seemed to say. For once in your worthless life, be a man. . . .

Lauren came speeding up the gravel lane to find an army of reporters waiting in the front yard. For an instant she was tempted to turn the car around and drive away. But her father had to be in the house. She couldn’t leave him alone. Slowing down and leaning on the horn, she headed the car straight for the front porch. Legs leaped and arms grabbed equipment as members of the press scrambled out of the way. But as soon as she braked at the foot of the steps, they were on her again, thrusting cameras and microphones into her face.

“Miss Prescott, how much did you know about your father’s campaign funding?”

“Have you spoken with your father, Miss Prescott? Do you believe he’s guilty?”

Fighting panic, she took the keys in her fist, set her jaw in determined silence, and pushed out of the car. It was as if she were drowning in a sea of people, shoving and jostling each other, shouting their questions to get her attention.

“Is your father in the house, Miss Prescott? What has he told you?”

Knowing it was better to say nothing than to open her mouth and lose her composure, Lauren clutched her purse and fought her way onto the porch. Her shaking hand thrust the key into the lock. The door swung open. Stumbling over the threshold, she locked it behind her.

For a moment she allowed herself to lean against the closed door and breathe until her heart stopped pounding. The house was dim and quiet.

Too quiet, even with the cook gone at this hour.

Where was her father?

“Dad?” She moved through the entry, listening for a voice, a footstep, the sound of running water or the opening of a door. All she could hear was the low rasp of her own breathing.

He had to be here. Where else could he go?

“Dad?” She made her way down the hall to his den, the most likely place to find him. The door, usually left ajar, was closed. As her hand touched the knob, a cold dread crept from the pit of her stomach into her throat. Willing herself to move, she opened the door.

She could smell the bourbon from where she stood. Red-eyed and rumpled, his tie askew, her father sat behind the desk. His left hand clutched the empty bottle. His right hand held Ferg Prescott’s heavy Colt revolver. The muzzle was pressed against his temple.

“Please don’t do this, Dad.” She took a step toward him, speaking softly. “Put the gun down. We can talk.”

“Too late for talk, Lauren.” The words slurred drunkenly. “I’m finished. Ruined. This is the only way out.”

She took another step, reaching out with her hand. “I know we’ve had our differences. But you’re the only parent I’ve got. For my sake, if nothing else, put the gun down—or better yet, give it to me.”

Something akin to madness glinted in his eyes. “You hear those bloodsuckers outside? They want t’ rip me t’ pieces. But they can’t have me. I won’t put myself through that.”

“And what will you put me through if you pull that trigger?” Lauren kept moving toward him. “I’ll be the one to see the blood, the one who has to call the police and wait for them to come.”

“I’m gonna do this, Lauren. Get the hell out if you don’t want t’ see it.”

“If you pull that trigger, I’ll be left without a father.” She felt her anger stir and rise until she was almost shouting at him. “But you don’t care about that, do you? You’ve never cared about anybody but Garn Prescott, you selfish son of a bitch!”

As his face froze in shock, Lauren flung herself across the desk. The impact knocked his arm back, shoving the gun away from his head. She’d hoped to knock the weapon out of his hand, but he was more determined than she’d realized. Keeping an iron grip on the pistol, he struggled to get the barrel in position for a fatal shot.