The Last Cowboy In Texas Read online

  The Last Cowboy in Texas

  By

  Pat Dale

  ISBN: 978-1-927111-97-0

  PUBLISHED BY:

  Books We Love Ltd.

  (Electronic Book Publishers)

  192 Lakeside Greens Drive

  Chestermere, Alberta, T1X 1C2

  Canada

  http://bookswelove.net

  Copyright 2012 by Pat Dale

  Cover art by: Michelle Lee Copyright 2012

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  Chapter One

  Troy had reached for the phone when Paige burst through his office door and stormed up to his desk. “What do you mean, telling me no? You need my help.”

  “I need help, but not necessarily from you.” The infuriating Neanderthal grinned. “That’s imprecise. The help I need is necessarily not from you. You’re a woman.”

  “Damn right I’m a woman and thank you for noticing for a change.” Just as she was ready to spit out something derogatory, her eyes linked with his. As always happened when they locked focus, her heart began to pound furiously. “I suppose you’re going to tell me a woman is only good for one thing. I can guess what that would be.”

  His devilishly handsome face broke into a big smile. “Not necessarily. It’s just that women have no place in a men’s club. If that upsets you, Paige, I’m sorry.”

  Oh, how this man loves repeating phrases. She recalled the times in their lives when they had disagreed on anything and everything. Their endless arguments from high school were legendary; exciting times when she’d truly felt alive. Like right now. “Better believe it upsets me. You need help. You said so. I offer assistance and you decline, not that I’m incapable but because I’m a woman. What’s so different about being a man, anyway? I don’t get it.”

  “I wouldn’t expect you to. We’re talking men’s club, Paige. Flanders Field Club is about football. Men play football. Men understand football. It’s a man’s game, damn it.”

  His eyebrows raised in the familiar way that annoyed her. “I wouldn’t want you to think we have no appreciation for women, but this is one thing we men have to do for ourselves.”

  “I know how much you appreciate women, Troy Roberts. How many have shared your bed by now? Twenty? Thirty?” She snapped, “Fifty?”

  “I don’t know. Depends on who’s counting.” He shrugged and winked at her.

  “Certainly not me, you, you—Don Juan!”

  The image of the legendary Lothario fought its way into her mind, a knight warrior who bore an uncanny resemblance to the man who stood leering at her, his teeth a gleaming picket fence, freshly painted with high gloss enamel; no need for white wash.

  “Don Juan? Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

  “It wasn’t meant as such. Well, if you won’t let me into your little gang, I’ll just have to start one of my own. After all, those poor football boys need a booster club that can actually get things done, don’t they?”

  “What do you mean by that?” His dreamy blue eyes turned frosty.

  “I’ll get some of our local ladies to organize our own booster organization. Then you’ll see who understands football, buster!”

  “Right.” He let out a good-natured chuckle that made her even angrier. “Good luck, Paige. How many women in little old Flanders, Missouri, do you think will be interested in a group like that?”

  “Melissa Coward for one. I’ve already talked to her about joining. She was excited at the prospect, but I guess she isn’t good enough for you, either.” She watched the good-old-boy charm fade from his face.

  “It’s not about being good enough, Miss Paige Turner...”

  There it was. The name that plagued her life because her dad, frustrated novelist that he’d been, had wanted a son. Well, the hell with Osmond Turner. Troy Roberts, too.

  She fought down the bile in her throat and refocused on his words. “...It’s about being a man in order to belong to a man’s club. What part of not being a man don’t you get?”

  “Any of it,” she snapped. “Why should that matter?”

  “Because I am a man and we are talking about a men’s club. Duh.”

  “Don’t duh me, you chauvinist jerk!”

  “That’s enough! Get out of my office, Paige. I’m not wasting any more time on you.”

  “Well, of all the...” Spinning on her heel she stomped out, slamming the door behind her. Outside, in her shiny black S80, she buckled in and took a deep breath. She didn’t expect Troy to be overjoyed by her offer to get women to join the club in order to help offset his club’s dwindling membership. But this?

  Bits of speeches from her student years at Stephen’s College stood out in her mind; one especially where the lady speaker urged women to integrate formerly all-male groups.

  Do I see this as a chance to become a real feminist?

  Somehow, being surrounded by a bunch of men talking football didn’t hold the excitement the lady had promised in her speech. Maybe she should look for a more appropriate target, but this was the only exclusively men’s club in Flanders.

  Is feminism really why I’m so insistent in joining this group? Could it have anything to do with the fact that Troy Roberts is their president?

  She felt her cheeks, still warm from the argument, flame at the thought. Of the few men she’d dated, he was the only one for whom she’d ever had intimate fantasies. Boy, did she have fantasies about him! With his deep mahogany hair, electric blue eyes, and that devilish dimple in his right cheek, she still did. Tall and athletic, with a muscular body…oh god, what a body…that had helped him become the star football player in high school; he’d always made her feel like a woman. Like the one time when she’d let herself…

  Even when he makes me so angry I could spit! Like right now.

  After a peevish scowl at the Happy Estates sign over his realty company, she started the Volvo and drove away. Time to go back to the paper and get to work. Because of a stupid promise she’d made to her dad, she had even more to get done today.

  Me and my big mouth. How in the world in Flanders will I ever form a women’s group to compete with Troy?

  * * *

  Troy watched her go, wondering why she always wore those ugly pantsuits. With a body as sensuous as hers, she should be wearing sexy exciting clothes to match her dark skin and sultry appearance. And her mysterious midnight eyes—wow!

  What the hell’s got into Paige? Is she trying to be some kind of female supremacist? A woman in a man’s football club? No way!

  He tried to focus on the sales contract on his desk but couldn’t. The crazy woman had blown his concentration. Forever pushing some do-gooder cause, now she wanted to take over the men’s club.

  Well, that’s not going to happen. She can go ahead and found her own damn club.

  He slammed his fist on the desktop and pushed the chair back. Coffee might help. “Julie, is the coffee fresh?”

  His perky secretary opened the door and stuck her head inside. “Meaning, will I make a fresh pot?”

  “Uh-huh. Unless you already did.”

  “Well, of course I already did. Reading the boss’s mind is part of secretarial training, didn’t you know?”

  “No, but I should have. You surely do that often enough."

  “I’ll bring your coffee right away. She got to you again, didn’t she, boss?”

  “Who?” he asked innocently. Wise beyond h
er years, Julie never missed a thing.

  “Miss Turner.”

  “Does it show that much?”

  “Yep. They had a name for women like her when I was in school but I can’t use it in mixed company.”

  Aware of Julie’s meaning, he asked, “Does the name end with the word buster?” A faint image of a younger Paige tickled his mind. “Actually she’s okay, Julie. Pushy, maybe, but she’s a go-getter.”

  “Go-getter, right. Well I’d better go-getter your coffee.”

  He chuckled as his muscles relaxed. Julie could always make him laugh; see the lighter side of things. Too bad she had a steady guy. Not that it was a good idea to date an employee but she was the kind of girl he’d love to have, to take his mind off Paige. No luck so far, though he’d made it his sole life-mission to check out the ladies, one and all. Well, nearly all.

  The dates he’d had with Paige in high school still left him fantasizing her at night. The unabashed way they’d explored each other’s bodies. And the kisses that put him in orbit. They’d never gone quite all the way but he’d known that when they finally got around to it, he’d enjoy the greatest lovemaking ever. Back then she’d been nothing like this modern imitation of Wonder Woman. He’d still been hung up on her when she came back after college, but she’d made things clear from the get-go, she wasn’t interested in him.

  If I could only stop those stupid dreams... Oh, well. Fantasies are harmless if you don’t act on them and there’s no chance for action in this case. It takes two to tango and, near as I can tell, Paige is not a dancer.

  He took the cup from Julie and thanked her, then sat back down. He’d been about to make an important call when Paige burst through the door. Now that he’d calmed a bit, he dialed his client.

  * * *

  Paige’s mind was zipping ninety miles an hour. Why had she fibbed to him? She didn’t want to start a new club. She wanted to be part of the old one; Troy’s club.

  She dialed Melissa Coward’s number. “Missy? I talked to Troy and he said no. Can you believe that?”

  “He turned you down, huh? Guess he’s still trying to get even with you.”

  “Get even?”

  “From when we were in school. You know, when you wouldn’t let him, uh, have what he wanted from you.”

  A spur of electric tension coursed her body. “How did you know about that?”

  “Well—you told me,” Missy blurted. “Don’t you remember?”

  “Uh, I guess so.” She didn’t remember but if she’d ever told anyone it would have been Missy. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay. What are you going to do now?”

  “Not me. We. We’re going to start a woman’s club.”

  Missy giggled. “For what? Sewing and knitting?”

  “No, silly. A women’s athletic booster club.”

  “Paige, aren’t we a little old for cheer-leading?”

  “Oh Missy, sometimes I think you leave your brain in your dresser drawer. I don’t mean a pep club. We can do everything those men can do. And we can do it better.”

  “Well, okay. I guess. It would have been a lot more fun to be a part of Troy’s group, though, don’t you think?”

  “Yes but that’s out. Can we get together this afternoon?”

  “Sure. Your place or mine?”

  “Yours. I don’t think my father would understand what we’re doing.”

  “I’m not sure I do, either.”

  “See you at four, Missy.”

  She looked across the street to see her father coming out of the Herald office and hoped he wouldn’t see her. He’d no doubt have another dumb errand for her to run, like some damn slave.

  I do my best to be the son he never had and he treats me like dirt.

  * * *

  Troy’s shiny red Lexus took him up the winding road from Flanders to Reeds Spring, hot on the trail of another of his sweet land deals that assured him a leisurely existence. Since musicians and entertainers had chosen to turn Branson into a national phenomenon, land values in the area were skyrocketing.

  Edgar Roberts had retired, leaving his son with a sleepy little real estate business in a sleepy little town. Not one to leave his light under a basket, Troy had headed for the more glamorous prospects of Branson. With physical attributes that could have put him on the silver screen, he made the most of his gregarious nature. And of his once in a lifetime opportunity.

  His bellicose enterprise had gotten an unexpected boost, lifting his fortunes beyond his wildest dreams. It seemed that each and every one of these illustrious stars wanted their own palace in the hills. And there were plenty of hills to go around.

  Now, a famous country singer, Jason Tawdry, had asked him to find the right spot for a hidden mansion. As he’d scoured the area, road by road, Troy had learned that huge tracts could still be had for a song. But he had to act fast. Word was spreading about what land was going for in the area.

  He’d found a virtual gold mine, two thousand acres available for a tenth of projected value; a thirtieth of what he’d sell five-acre parcels for. He knew he had competition. If he didn’t get it signed today, it would cost at least twice as much by tomorrow or the next day.

  There was one possible problem with the site. He’d heard a rumor that some female environmentalist had found a tiny varmint along the creek bottom that ran through the tract, a Gamine miniature frog she claimed was endangered specie.

  For crying out loud, everybody knew about the Gamies. Not much larger than a cricket, they multiplied by the thousands every summer.

  Gamies endangered? Not on your life. I’ll handle that prissy missy in a heartbeat. Probably another damn feminist, like Paige.

  * * *

  Paige was in the middle of her weekend editorial when her dad interrupted her. “I want you to go over to Reeds Spring, Paige. There’s a lady at the motel there that has a story.”

  “Was someone murdered?”

  “No, but you’d think so from the way this gal’s carrying on. Just see if she’s got anything newsworthy.”

  “Okay. You mind if I finish my editorial first?”

  “I figured you’d rather drive that road in daylight.”

  He was right. “Well, I suppose I can finish this tomorrow. What’s her name?”

  “Agatha Kingfisher. No wisecracks, please. That’s really her name. At least she says it is. Unit eleven.” She waved goodbye and headed for her car.

  It was four when she pulled up at the Quiet Springs Motel. The place, whose name had been a source of humor for decades, was a holdover from early twentieth century. An office and a dozen rustic—make that ramshackle—cabins.

  A woman with fiery red hair opened the door when she knocked. “Are you Miss Kingfisher?” From appearances, the answer was obvious. Typical woodsy clothes and rather unkempt.

  “Yes. You must be the reporter from the Flanders Herald.”

  “Right. I’m Paige Turner.” The look of amusement on the woman’s face almost triggered an inappropriate comment.

  “Did Mr. Turner, your husband I assume, explain my find?”

  “Mr. Turner, my father unfortunately, said you had a story but didn’t give me any details. What’s the lowdown?”

  “I’m an environmentalist. I study fish and other aquatic life. My mentor sent me here to look for endangered species.”

  “And?”

  “And I found one.”

  “Here? I can’t imagine that. What is it?”

  “It’s a tiny frog they call a Gamine but the classical term is amphibios miniare gaminos. It sounds like a cricket when it sings.”

  “You call that singing? Other frogs croak. This one cricks. We know all about the Gamies around here. They’re not endangered, Miss Kingfisher, just a damn nuisance. How do you figure they’re in trouble?”

  “The inhabitants use them for fishbait in the lakes here.”

  “So?”

  “What do you mean, so? Are you a real reporter or just someone they send out to dis
courage we scientists from doing our duty to save threatened wildlife?”

  “I’m a real reporter, Agatha. Actually, associate editor of the paper, but I need a real story to be able to follow up on it. This isn’t a real story as far as I can tell.”

  “You’re wrong. I’ve called my mentor and he’s on his way. We’ll give you a story, unless you only want to protect your local sportsmen. We can always take it to Springfield.”

  “Hold on. I don’t give a hoot about protecting so-called sportsmen. It’s just hard to believe those little things could be worth anybody’s time and interest.”

  “Believe me, they are. I’ve spent three years looking for something like this and now that I’ve found it, I’m not backing off.”

  “Okay, I’ll listen to you. So, where did you find them?”

  “I can’t be specific until we’ve documented the find. It’s along a little creek east of here. Willow Creek.”

  “Okay. I’ll try to spread the word on this find of yours. Let me get some basic details down while we’re waiting for your mentor to show. Does he have a name, Miss Kingfisher?”

  “Dr. Steven Carlson, and I’d prefer you call me Aggie.”

  By the time she had sufficient information to satisfy her dad, it was nearly six. She’d forgotten her meeting with Missy so she pulled out her cell phone and dialed.

  “Missy, I’m sorry. Dad sent me to Reeds Spring for a story and I totally forgot to call.”

  “It’s okay, Paige. Did they have a murder over there?”

  “No. I think it’s a wild goose chase. You know Dad, but I took notes to keep him happy. Can we get together tomorrow?”

  “Nope. Mom and I are going to Branson to shop.”