Dirty-Talking Cowboy (Kinky Spurs 1)

Do they really? No one had made a real effort to talk to her ever since she left. If Camille had missed her so much, then why hadn’t she gotten this number to call Emma herself? “I’ll reach out, promise.” Little white lies didn’t hurt anyone. Besides, all of this only reminded Emma how very alone she was.

Before that reminder drowned her in a black hole she could never climb out of, she moved along. “I went into Grams’s lawyer’s office”—the day before the Bentley accident—“and signed everything that I needed to sign.”

“Wonderful news,” Mom said, an obvious smile in her voice. “So, the title is now in your name?”

“Seems so.” Even that was something Emma hadn’t made sense out of yet. Grams had left everyone in the family money, but to Emma she gave the farm, along with the abused animals. Maybe Grams had some crazy foresight in knowing Emma would need this escape. But that could only be true if Emma believed fate led one’s life. She wasn’t sure if she did.

“Now, Emma,” Mom said slowly, undoubtedly getting ready to state her opinion. “I’m not saying you need to sell the farm, but if you want to, you shouldn’t wait too long to put the house on the market. Everyone in town will be talking about the property. It’s good for us to ride that publicity. I’ve already chatted with a stager, so we can make that happen quickly, if you decide to go that route.”

“Okay, thanks,” Emma hedged.

“On the other hand,” Mom continued, “if you choose to stay there for any longer than you have been, and still can’t make a final decision, we need to think about your condo. It’s silly for you to continue paying a mortgage on a place you’re not living in. If you decide to stay, I can easily hire someone to pack up all your stuff and get your things shipped to you.” She hesitated, apparently thinking a plan through. “Since you have no mortgage there on the farm, it makes sense to rent your condo as an investment. You just need to make a decision, sweetie.”

That was the problem. Selling the farm wasn’t necessarily a bad idea. Emma could find the abused animals a new home, then take the money from the sale of the property and start over in another big city, maybe Seattle or Chicago, where her name wasn’t associated with the Jake scandal.

Though, as she sat there in the kitchen where Grams made her so many meals, swearing she could still smell Grams’s famous apple pies baking in the oven, she couldn’t imagine selling the property. This house was Grams’s. To let the place go was like letting go of Grams herself, and Emma wasn’t sure she was ready to do that either.

Sudden warmth touched Mom’s voice when she broke the silence. “You’re going to be okay, Emma.”

“I know.” Now she simply needed to believe it.

* * *

Across town, after heading home for a quick shower and some grub, Shep eased his truck into a spot, letting the engine quiet to a rumble before cutting the ignition. Through the windshield, above the black awning of the red-brick store’s front, the black sign with the bold yellow writing read: BLACKSHAW CATTLE CO., and, in small letters beneath: PRIME QUALITY MEATS. Dullness filled his chest, a feeling of heaviness overcoming him from the responsibility he did not want. The two days that had gone by he’d only thought of himself, and of Emma. He had his father’s estate to deal with, and that’s where his head should be, yet Emma was a distraction. She’d become an itch he couldn’t ignore but needed to scratch. And now that he’d had her, she’d become an outright addiction. The way she melted under his touch and sensually responded to him was all the foreplay he needed, replaying in his mind over and over again. He wanted more.

&nbs

p; First he needed to deal with his father’s company, then he could play. Because for all that had gone wrong lately, and all the sadness that had clouded his life after his father’s death, he wanted to revel in her brightness. She felt good to be around, a place where he had a purpose, even if that purpose was simply to pleasure her. It felt damn good considering that when his father passed, his stronghold on his very controlled world had unraveled.

Determined to get back to her quickly, he exited his truck, stepping into the cloudy day. He strode in the opposite direction of the meat shop on Main Street, passing by five doors before he entered through the glass door, met by Harriett’s smile. “Good morning,” he said, giving the door a hard shove to close it into the tight doorjamb.

“Good morning, Shep,” Harriett said, sitting behind her desk. She must’ve worked for Lee Schultz for more than thirty years by now. She was well into her late sixties, and fit Lee’s office as much as he did, being a little dated in her fashion, with a vintage flowered dress and her silvery-violet curls atop her head. “How’s your mother?” Harriett and his mother played bridge together, but his mother hadn’t been since Dad passed.

Shep returned the smile. “She’s well, thank you.” Or at least as well as could be expected after losing her husband. He moved closer, never able to get used to the scent in the air. A mix of mold and dust, just about everything inside the small office needed a makeover. He was certain nothing had been changed, not a chair, a painting on the wall, or a desk, since Lee opened his accounting firm in the 1970s. He turned his focus back onto Harriet. “I believe she’ll be attending bridge next weekend.”

“That’s wonderful news.” Harriett’s smile turned sad. “That poor dear Jenny. We’re all missing her.” She gestured toward the office on the right. “Go on in. Lee’s expecting you.”

Shep smiled in thanks and moved past her, entering Lee’s office. The smell of dust worsened with each step he took.

When he entered the office, he found Lee siting behind his desk, his white head of hair bowed down, shoulders hunched, while he read the documents laid out in front of him with the help of a handheld magnifier. “Mornin’,” Shep announced himself.

Lee’s head lifted, stern blue eyes narrowed on Shep. Wrinkles marred his face. Lee hadn’t aged particularly well, cigars and liquor likely the cause. He might be pushing seventy years old, but he looked closer to eighty. “About time you came in to see me,” Lee muttered.

Shep ignored the reprimand, shutting the door behind him. “It’s been busy.” Lee wouldn’t get an apology out of him. He’d started calling even before they buried Dad. “Is there a problem with my father’s estate?” He sat in the client chair, crossing an ankle over one knee.

Lee flipped through a stack of file folders on his desk, then pulled out one. “First, Jerry”—his father’s lawyer—“sent over all the documentation you signed with him. Everything’s in place, and you’ll gain access to your father’s accounts by the end of tomorrow, I imagine. After that, you’ll be able to transfer everything into your mother’s name.”

“Great, she’ll be pleased to hear that.”

Lee hesitated, reviewing his file, then addressed Shep again. “Everything is fine with the corporation. Colin will remain as CEO and run the day-to-day business, with major decisions to be determined by the family.”

“Good—that’s what Dad wanted.” It was what his mom wanted too. She didn’t want control of the business. She’d been a stay-at-home mom, and had been the mom every kid wanted, raising three boys into men. Shep would do what he could to see that the estate was handled without putting any stress on her. “Though if that’s the case, and things are settling up nicely, what was the urgency of me coming to see you?”

Lee reached for another folder on his desk. “To discuss the financial situation with the company.” He offered the folder to Shep.

“What financial situation?” Shep opened the folder, reading over the numbers laid out before him. Though in only a few seconds, he realized he didn’t need to ask Lee the question. The more he read, the more he saw a disturbing truth. “Blackshaw Cattle is in financial trouble?”

Lee nodded grimly, resting his hands on his desk. “The company has been slowly declining for the past couple years. Did your father never mention it?”