Lone Star Holiday Proposal

There was one tenant he’d yet to have the opportunity to talk to. He recalled her name from his memory—Raina Patterson. From what he understood she might be closer to Mellie Winslow than some of the other tenants. Maybe Ms. Patterson could give him the angle he needed to pry this property from the Winslow family’s grip.

He began to walk toward a large red barn at the bottom of the U-shape created by the buildings. The iron roof had been proudly painted with the Texas flag. The sight of that flag never failed to tug at him; as much as he’d assimilated to his California lifestyle, he’d always be Texan.

Looking around, Nolan understood why the Winslow family had, after initial interest in Samson Oil’s offer, grown cagey at the idea of selling this little community and the land it was on. For a town that was still rebuilding, this was an area of optimism and growth. Selling out from underneath everyone was bound to create unrest and instability all over again. Not everyone here could just pick up and create a new life in a new town or state like he had.

Damn, and there he was again. Thinking of the past and of what he’d lost. His wife, his son. He should probably have sent someone else on the legal team to do this job but Rafiq had been adamant he handle it himself. He mentally shrugged. It was the price he paid for the obscenely high salary he earned—he could live with that as long as he didn’t ever have to live here again, with his memories.

* * *

Raina made a final tweak of the pine boughs and tartan ribbons she’d used to decorate the antique mantelpiece and looked around her store with a sense of pride and wonder. Her store. Priceless by name and by nature. She’d been here in the renovated red barn a month now. She still couldn’t quite believe that a year after the tornado that had leveled her original business and much of the town of Royal, she’d managed to rebuild her inventory and relocate her business rather than just fold up altogether.

It certainly hadn’t been easy, she thought as she moved through the store and let her hand drift over the highly polished oak sewing table she’d picked up at an estate sale last week—but it had been worth it.

Now all she had to do was hold on to it. A ripple of disquiet trickled down her spine. Her landlord, Mellie Winslow, had been subdued yesterday when she’d visited Raina but had said she was doing everything she could to ensure that her father’s company, Winslow Properties, didn’t sell the Courtyard.

Raina needed to know this wasn’t all going to be ripped away from her a second time. She didn’t know if she had it in her to start over again. Losing her store on Main Street, and most of her underinsured inventory of antiques, had just about sent her packing from the town she’d adopted as her own four years ago. She had to make this work, for herself and for her little boy.

No matter which way she looked at it, though, she still couldn’t understand why anyone would be interested in buying the dried-up and overused land, let alone an oil company. If only Samson Oil—who’d been buying land left, right and center around Royal—would go away and let her have the peace and security she’d been searching for her whole life. Heck, it wasn’t even as if they seemed to be doing anything with the properties they’d bought up. At the rate Samson Oil was going, Royal would become a ghost town.

“Mommy! Look!”

Raina turned and smiled at her son, Justin, or JJ as he was known, as he proudly showed off the ice cream cone her dad—his namesake—had just bought him. JJ was three going on thirteen most of the time, but today he was home from day care because he’d been miserable with a persistent cold. He was back to being the little boy who wanted his mommy and his “G’anddad” most of all. The theory had been that he’d rest on the small cot she had in her office out back, but theory had been thrown to the wind when JJ had heard his beloved granddad arrive to help Raina move some of the heavier items in the store.

Looking at JJ now, she began to wonder if she’d been conned by the little rascal all along. The little boy had protested his granddad’s departure most miserably, but he was all smiles now with an ice cream cone and the promise of a sleepover on the weekend.

“Lucky you,” she answered squatting down to JJ’s eye level. “Can I have some?”

JJ pulled the cone closer to him, distrust in his eyes. “No, Mommy. G’anddad said it mine.”

Raina pouted. “Not even one little lick?”

She saw the indecision on his face for just a moment before he proffered the dripping cone in her direction. “One,” he said very solemnly.