Gambling On a Heart (6 page)

As a van passed them, he said, “I’m not surprised about Leon killing anyone. He was one sneaky, cold-hearted sombitch, but him being a blood relative of mine makes me wonder about our gene pool.” Jake frowned as he glanced at Brent again. He was still shoving more lard into his already fat body. “Then again, look at Johnny, Darryl and Talon. The three of them are the hardest men I know, and not all of that comes from being Jock Blackwell’s bastards. They have Jock’s crazy genes. Mom missed getting those from Granny Blackwell, I guess.”

“I agree. ’Cause I sure as hell ain’t crazy. But I don’t know ’bout you,” Brent mumbled.

“Ha, ha. You’re a fuckin’ comedian tonight.” Jake glared at his brother. How the hell could they possibly be related? Jake was stocky and muscular, while Brent was mostly blubber. “If you’d lay off the junk, you might actually find a woman.”

“Don’t want one.” He crunched on more deep-fried fat. “Nuttin’ but trouble.”

“Keep tellin’ yourself that, baby brother.”

Brent settled back into his seat and took a deep breath. “It’s just a shame Mom didn’t inherit Blackwell Ranch when Granddad died. We’d be rich bastards right now with all that oil still under the place. I could buy myself a woman. Maybe one like that stripper that just married Dylan Quinn. She’s one hot number, and rich.”

Jake met his brother’s eyes and grinned. “Shut the hell up. I’m not listening to you yack the whole way.”

He turned the radio up and settled into the seat as Hank Williams, Sr., crooned out
Hey, Good Lookin’
.

* * * *

The aroma of bacon and blueberry pancakes wafted up the stairs to meet Tracy as she stumbled down the second floor hall. Her belly growled, and she scowled at the treacherous sound.

She never ate a heavy breakfast–a bowl of Cheerios or cornflakes was as elaborate as she got. And always with copious amounts of coffee. She didn’t smell the morning liquor and sighed. Her mother could make a breakfast she really didn’t want, but wouldn’t make the coffee she needed. Mom didn’t drink the stuff and Dad preferred the instant crap–probably because that’s what he was used to drinking.

Tracy turned at the bottom of the stairs. As she headed down the hall toward the kitchen, she overheard Bobby squeal, “Mom never makes me pancakes! Blueberry! Thanks, Grandma, you’re the best.”

The sound of her father’s deep chuckle and her mother’s laugh grated over Tracy like the tines of a rake. “Your mom needs to learn to cook.” His words were salt rubbed into the scratches. “A growing boy can’t live on chicken nuggets and cold cereal.”

“Mom says she hates to cook.” Bobby spoke between slurping sounds. He must have drowned the light and fluffy pancakes with syrup. His mouth sounded full. “I swear only Dad is worse.”

Her belly growled again at the memory of her mother’s special homemade blueberry pancakes. This time she slapped her hand across her middle.

“As long as I’m around you won’t be eating that processed junk.” Her mother’s voice was soft, but her words hurt like a punch.

Mom made it sound like Tracy didn’t take care of Bobby. So what if she couldn’t cook? She hated it and never understood what her mother found so fascinating about it. Who in their right mind wanted to slave over a hot stove? But Tracy didn’t just feed Bobby junk. They ate salads, and she made spaghetti. She baked chicken breasts and pork chops and served them with rice from a box and bag of frozen vegetables–just like every other working mom out there in the world.

She didn’t slave over a simmering pot for hours, but what she made was good and quick. Unlike her mother, Tracy worked for a living.

When she’d been in high school, her mother had tried to equate the mixing of ingredients with chemistry, a subject Tracy had always found interesting, but she just didn’t get it. Now, she only found cooking tedious and something she had to do, like cleaning the toilet.

As she allowed the stress of having her parents in the house continue to boil over, she assured herself that she was a good mom by thinking of the things she did do for Bobby. She’d taken time to play with her son. Bobby never wanted anything, and she’d easily lay her life down to spare his. She’d saved her tips and maxed out one of her credit cards two years ago to take him to Disney World, SeaWorld and the Universal theme park. He still talked about the two-week trip.

Bobby had never complained about her cooking until his grandmother moved in, and suddenly Tracy wasn’t a good mother because she didn’t make blueberry pancakes–from organic wholegrain flour, buttermilk and fresh blueberries.

What does Zack make Mandy for breakfast?
Did he make her pancakes and cook up fantastic meals? Or did Zack serve the same things like cereal, canned spaghetti sauce, and boxed mac and cheese?

Zack had cooked for Tracy a few times. She remembered the first time he’d surprised her with a picnic basket full of homemade potato salad and fried chicken. The image of him watching her with anticipation in his blue eyes as she took those first bites still burned in her psyche. After she’d assured him the meal was delicious, he’d blushed and admitted he’d made it himself.

Tracy squashed the memory in its sneaky tracks. Hadn’t being up half the night thinking about the man been enough?

Sucking in a deep breath, she entered the kitchen and kissed Bobby on the forehead. Bobby squirmed in his seat but didn’t fuss. He was too busy stuffing pancakes into his mouth.

Tracy went to the granite-topped counter and began making coffee. Her mother was dishing up more pancakes and bacon. “Tracy, you really shouldn’t drink so much coffee. All that caffeine isn’t good for you.”

Closing her eyes, Tracy breathed through her nose and held the breath. As she let it out, she opened her eyes before turning to face her mother. “I beg to differ. There is absolutely no concrete evidence on whether caffeine is good or bad for you. In fact, that bacon is probably worse to eat than drinking two cups of coffee in the morning is.”

Tracy took the plate her mother held out toward her.

Mom pursed her lips and turned back to the stove. “I hope Dylan and Charli have a nice time in Hawaii. I still don’t understand why they wanted to take that girl with them.”

Tracy took a seat beside Bobby at the big center breakfast island and picked up a fork to dig into the pancakes. “I’m sure they all are having a great time. And that
girl
has a name. Annie. Charli and Dylan took her along so she could get away from here for a little while. You know her mother was just murdered by her biological father.”

“I think their wanting to adopt her is a lot to take on.” Her father turned the page of his morning newspaper. “Have you heard from them yet?”

“Maybe it is a big responsibility, but I personally think it’s noble of them.” Tracy spread butter on her pancakes and dumped her mother’s special blueberry syrup over them. “Charli’s going to text me when they get to the resort.”

“There was another cattle theft.” Dad laid the paper on the island top.

“Where?” Bobby swallowed the bite around which he’d spoken. “Was it close?”

“A ranch called W bar T.”

“The Westcotts, distant cousins of Zack’s–and ours, too, I guess. Over near Gambler’s Lake on the other side of the county.” Tracy wiped the syrup off her mouth with the paper napkin her mother handed her. Mom also placed a cup of the freshly brewed coffee with cream already added before Tracy. “Thanks, Mom.” She picked up the mug. “That makes the seventh rustling since the end of June.”

Dad shook his head as he scanned the news report. “It says,
The Texas and Southwestern Cattle Raisers Association–TSCRA–are assisting the Forest County Sheriff’s Department in determining when the raid occurred. According to Sheriff Zachery Cartwright, the forty-three Herefords were reported missing Friday, but may have been stolen as many as four days ago.
” Her father looked up and removed his glasses. “I’m surprised Cartwright didn’t mention this yesterday at the wedding.”

“Maybe he didn’t want to cast a shadow on the day.” Her mother bustled about, cleaning up empty plates. “Which was the polite thing to do.”

Bobby, now finished devouring his breakfast, glanced up at Tracy. “The newspaper always makes everything sound so boring. Can I go outside?”

Tracy nodded and sipped her coffee. “Yes, you
may
go out, but don’t get dirty. We’ll be going to church in a couple of hours. And stay out of the ranch hands’ way.”

Bobby’s response was his usual roll of the eyes. Why she bothered warning him was beyond her, but she had to try. Bobby missed living in town where he had friends, and she was secretly thankful the workers Bobby attached himself to didn’t mind having the boy around.

When Dylan had invited them to live in the mansion on Oak Springs Ranch, she’d been thrilled to get Bobby out of town and on the ranch. She’d always loved the old house, which had been in her mother’s family for six generations. It was a replica of the original plantation house where her great-great-great grandfather had been born before the Civil War. When he’d returned from the War Between the States, he and his two cousins headed west.

Tracy picked at her pancakes. “Zack sure has his hands full. He’s still helping the Texas Rangers and the FBI investigate Leon’s crimes, and now this.”

Her mother stopped wiping the counter. “I heard yesterday from Winnie Cartwright that Leon’s trying to plead insanity. He’s pulling in doctors from all over to give credence to his claim because his father and grandmother had bi-polar disorders.” Her blue eyes flashed and she huffed. “I’ll tell you I can agree that Leon’s crazy, but if my stepbrother tries to use that crock of classic bull crap to get off murdering his grandfather, his father and the mother of his daughter...
Plus
, the forgery of my father’s will.” She slapped a hand against the counter. “
And
he threatened the lives of my son and the mother of his unborn child. If he gets off, I’ll–I’ll...” Her face flushed red as her shrill voice trailed off. She released her death grip on the dishcloth in her hand and ran the fingers of both hands through her short hair.

Her father grinned and raised a dark brow. “You’ll what?”

“I’ll raise Cain,” her mother drawled with a jut of her chin.

Both Tracy and her father laughed. Picking up his empty mug, he stood and went around the island and kissed his wife on the cheek. “I’m sure you will do just that.”

Tracy averted her eyes and focused on eating the now-cold pancakes on her plate.

“Mom! Mom!” Bobby ran into the kitchen from the mudroom with her mother’s two yapping Yorkshire terriers on his heels. “Mom!”

Tracy winced as Cinnamon and Ginger barked very time he called for her. “What?”

While her mother calmed the excited dogs, Bobby looked up with widened eyes from her to his grandfather. Before he could explain what the hullabaloo was all about, Tom Miller, the foreman of Oak Springs Ranch, and Zack Cartwright followed the boy into the kitchen.

Zack stood in the doorway, dressed in a tan uniform that looked too damn good on his lean frame. He took in the entire room with one sweeping glance as he removed his Stetson. His eyes burned with something Tracy couldn’t name when they settled on her. “Someone rustled forty-five Angus steers out of the southeastern pasture of Oak Springs last night. Who wants to break the news to the newlyweds?”

* * * *

“Oh, no!” Eileen and Tracy gasped at the exact same time and both women covered their mouths.

Zack almost smiled at the reactions of the mother and daughter. He looked from Tracy to Bob and couldn’t help slipping into a military stance with his arms at his sides. “Morning, General Quinn.”

Bob’s lopsided grin surprised Zack. “Relax, Zack. Last time I checked I’m not wearing a star on my shoulder. Good morning, Tom.”

When the retired Army general moved around the counter to stand by Tracy, Zack blinked. The tough old general wore a pair of running shorts, a wife beater, and a pair of flip-flops.

“No, I suppose not,” Zack said.

“Bobby, go up to your room and start getting ready for church,” Tracy said.

Bobby started to protest, but when she arched a delicate dark brow, he huffed out a breath and headed out of the room.

She stood from the stool, the long pencil skirt hugging her slender figure as she moved. She tugged on the flouncy sleeves of her white blouse and looked from Zack to Tom. “Would the two of you like some coffee?”

Tom shook his head, but Zack could use a cup. He hadn’t had more than a couple hours of sleep, and now his mouth was dry. “That’ll be good. Thanks.”

As Tracy headed for the coffee maker across the kitchen, Zack’s gaze followed the sway of her slender hips.