Chapter One
Toby’s eyes squinted open. The dimness of morning was blocked by cheap motel drapes. Thank God because his head was pounding. Kathleen…or was it Katherine? Maybe Kameron? Hell, he couldn’t remember. Some pretty, random blonde slept beside him, forearm flung over her head.
He rubbed the sleep from his face. What the hell time was it? How many shots had he downed?
It’d been a year since he’d drunk like that. A year(!) since he’d been such an idiot and vowed to his dying mother that he’d clean up his act. Who knew what all he’d done last night? Toby almost didn’t want to remember. There’d been a mechanical bull somewhere…at Amigo’s? That hole-in-the-wall at the end of town? Crap. There’d been tits, too. Whose, he didn’t know. Lots of laughter that made the whiskey-hazed memory right now clang like an old steam-engine bell in his brain.
He winced and rolled over, draping an arm off the mattress, and fished for his clothes on the floor, stifling a moan at the headache hammering a hole in his forehead. Someone was bound to gossip if he’d done anything stupid, and then all of Alpine, Texas, would know that Toby, the rich, third son of the Dixon Cattle Company dynasty, was living in the fast lane again.
Which would surprise no one.
His brothers would nail his sorry ass to the fence post and rip him a new one if they were here. God, “perfect Tyler” shaming him to grow the hell up was the last thing he needed, right alongside Travis staring at him with those cold eyes that had seen too much and knew firsthand how privileged they all were after returning from Afghanistan a changed man.
He slipped a foot onto the floor, bracing himself, trying not to dip the bed. He’d creep out of here if it was the last thing he did. Kristy, or Kallie—whoever—gave a soft snore and shifted at the shake to the discount mattress that—judging by the uneven springs—had seen a lot of mileage. He held his breath. Her bottle-blond hair, fanning across the pillow and smelling like cotton candy, tangled around her face, and she settled back to sleep.
Dammit,he cursed, standing and catching himself against the bedside table as dizziness threatened to send him to the floor on his bare ass. Toby had little recollection of her, barely remembered tossing her down onto the bed as she’d giggled and begged him for a good time and…
Oh God…
Had he passed out before they’d done the deed?
He had.
He’d left her hanging. She’d expected some horizontal two-stepping, but he’d collapsed on the pillow and crumpled right into it. Lights out. He was a damn lightweight these days. At thirty-one, he didn’t have that all-night stamina anymore. What the hell kind of asshole took a girl back to a motel room and then fell asleep?
Dude. What kind of guy takes a girl back to a motel room, period?That was perfect Tyler’s voice again—the lawyer, the dad, the Harvard grad, the Eagle Scout, the guitarist, and varsity football captain all rolled into one, who’d always been too damn good for his own good, the bastard.
Glancing around the seedy room, two red plastic cups and a half-empty fifth of Jack were tipped over on the table. Hot-pink panties were flung across the chair beside them, along with the microscopic skirt she’d been wearing.
Toby rolled his eyes at himself. He’d been so desperate to escape his sadness, he’d blown his plans the day before—just like the screwup he’d always been. Shit, he hadn’t even called to cancel his appointment with the Brewster County Junior Ranchers program, just tossed everything down and jetted. “K Girl” had made him forget his grief, if only for a little while.
His momma would be so disappointed in him.
He found his jeans wadded behind the table, fished his legs through the holes, and hooked the oval belt buckle. As he tucked his T-shirt under his arm, he felt his pockets. No wallet. Crap! Had he lost it? He searched the table, underneath the chairs, and knelt beside the bed, patting his hand underneath until he felt the fold of leather and his keys. He exhaled, then sifted through the contents, pulled out two twenties, and jotted a note on the motel’s pad of paper to use it for cab fare. Then he grabbed his socks and tucked them into his back pocket along with his handkerchief, jamming his feet into his shit-kickers.
He slipped out the door while it was still early and morning “rush hour” hadn’t hit. There was no way in hell he was sticking around for the whole of Alpine to see his ’88 Ford Bronco parked at God-Knows-Where so the rumor mill could start grinding out gossip.
“That Toby Dixon, still hasn’t pulled his head out of his rich little ass… Mister and Missus Dixon would be horrified to see what their youngest son has become…”Or worse. The women. “Mmm…wouldn’t mind being a notch on that cowboy’s belt… Give me a chance to tame that bull…”
The remarks might make a sixteen-year-old pissant feel like hot stuff, but he wasn’t a kid anymore. And he had a reputation as “not the marrying type.” Love ’em and leave ’em. A good time. While his friends had started shackling themselves to the proverbial ball and chain, he found himself more and more alone. Poker nights were down to a scant few anti-ball-and-chainers as their buddies married one by one and moved on.
He squinted in the pre-dawn light, stark against the desert backdrop. Where the hell was he, and how had he ended up here? But as he got his bearings and his eyes adjusted, he simultaneously heaved a sigh of relief and groaned as he read the motel sign. God-Knows-Where turned out to be the King Pin Motel. This nasty joint? This place was slimier than a cowboy with a ten-gallon hat and no horse. Toby Dixon, the irresponsible brat of the family, could. Not. Be. Caught. Here. Dead. Or. Alive.
Still. Amigo’s was just across the street, where yesterday’s escapade had begun and thankfully ended. His jacked-up, unmistakable Bronco was still in the Amigo’s lot, parked haphazardly across two parking spaces. He shook his head and jogged across the quiet road as the lone stoplight this far out of town blinked yellow, dodging the few oncoming trucks on their way to work. He hopped over the guard rail protecting Amigo’s lot and yanked on his door handle to get the hell out of there. It took three yanks to realize that while he’d parked like he owned the lot—tip of the hat to the owner for not towing him—he’d somehow had enough presence of mind to lock the doors.
“Son of a…” he cursed, fishing out his keys, unlocking the truck, and climbing up into the cab.
A note was jammed under his windshield wiper, and he leaned out to snatch it up and read it aloud: “Hey, a parking spot just for you, F-ing jerk.”
F-ing jerk? He laughed. The person who wrote it had actually censored their complaint? He cranked down the window, fired up the Beast, pulled out onto the road, and headed for Stella’s, where he could wake up for a minute with some coffee and reevaluate how yesterday had gone so wrong. His headache pulsed hard, and he tossed the stupid note on his floorboard. He grabbed his cowboy hat and jammed it onto his head, grumbling. Need. Coffee. And some ibuprofen and a gallon of water because, dang, his mouth tasted like cotton. He also needed some of Stella’s famous B&G. The grease from those fluffy buttermilk biscuits and creamy sausage gravy was just what his stomach needed to glue itself together again.
The desert breeze washing over his skin through the window revived him. Thank God. He had things to do today. Missing appointments with program directors wasn’t going to help him achieve anything, and these childish escapades threatened to cheapen the long-standing good name of the Legacy. His great-great-grandfather’s legacy—and each father’s legacy after that. A legacy Toby had resented for too long…
“Aw, damn.”
A local summer camp was bringing their kids out to hike on Cerro Casas Grandes today, the plateaued uplift that loomed over the Legacy’s main house and surrounding desert like a sentinel. He’d offered to lead the tour.
“Add this to my list of things to do.”