LITMIR.BIZ

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who’d lived in it. The pale blond furniture would not be the taste of most young girls, and Hank realized it even as he lifted the dust ruffle and checked under the bed. An old pair of cowboy boots caught his eye and he pulled them out. They were well-worn, the heels rounded and the toes scuffed. He put them back and turned to the closet.

      Several formal gowns reflected high school dates and glory. He moved a few abandoned pairs of shoes and determined the closet was empty of snakes.

      “Meow.”

      He turned to find the black cat watching him. He didn’t believe a word that Stephanie had said about the cat’s detective agency, but he found the feline’s stare unsettling. It was as if the cat were assessing him. Maybe that was just a cat’s personality. He was a dog man—no use for sleeping critters too lazy to even catch a mouse.

      He stepped past the cat and felt a sharp, intense pain in his calf. He looked down and saw the cat had deliberately snagged him. “Hey!”

      Familiar turned him loose and trotted back to the closet. “Meow.”

      He had the strangest sense the cat wanted to tell him something. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “Timmy in the well?”

      The cat gave him a long hiss.

      “So, for all your many talents, you don’t appreciate Lassie jokes?” He realized too late that he was talking to the cat as if it could understand him.

      “Meow.” Familiar disappeared in the open closet and began to scratch at the carpet.

      “I think that’s a reason to get evicted from the house,” Hank said, walking over to catch the cat. He’d put him outside and let him scratch some tree trunks or fence posts.

      He leaned into the closet and saw that Familiar had moved several pairs of shoes. He clawed at the carpet. Curious, Hank got down on his knees. The carpet had been pulled loose from the corner of the closet, and not by the cat. He lifted the flap, pulling it out to reveal a trap door. Hank hesitated only a moment before he pulled the door free and looked down to see the ground below the house. It was an escape hatch. In case of fires, he supposed.

      He looked at the cat. It did seem the feline had known about this and decided to show him. “I’ll get a board and nail it up,” he said. If someone was sneaking around McCammon Ranch, he didn’t want them to be able to slip into the house. The cat’s gaze was so intense, he found he couldn’t look away. At last he realized what the cat wanted. “Okay, thank you,” he said, flipping the carpet back and feeling like the biggest kind of fool for talking to a cat.

      He found an empty-handed Rodney at the other end of the house. They walked out together, headed for the barn.

      THE OLD OAK BOX was still tucked in the wall safe behind the Remington where Uncle Albert had always left it. Stephanie carefully removed it from the safe and carried it to the kitchen.

      Her heart lurched painfully, but she kept the tears at bay. Everything about the ranch held a memory. Most of them the best in her life. She’d cried enough, though, her face against Hank’s strong chest. In all of her years in New York, she’d never felt as safe as she had those few moments in Hank’s arms. That, she thought with a crooked grin, was the illusion of the cowboy. It was true they were men of honor who could be counted on for a dramatic rescue. She’d never known braver men than those who worked with her uncle on the farm. She’d seen them risk life and limb for a few moments of glory on a thrashing bull or rodeo bronc. The local weekly rodeo would start at eight Friday night in Pecos. She had half a mind to ride out there and watch for a little while. Maybe, along the way, she’d ask around to see who’d bought her uncle’s cows.

      She put her mind back on the task of getting the will. She’d known about the document since she was fifteen years old, when Albert had sat her down and explained what a will was and where he was putting it. He was a man who took care of loose ends.

      She took a breath, willing herself to be calm, and opened the box. A sheaf of letters and documents covered the top. Beneath that was Aunt Em’s jewelry. Stephanie blinked the tears away and lifted the papers out. She couldn’t look at the jewelry. Not now. She didn’t want to see the emerald pin that Albert gave Em on her fortieth birthday. It was in the shape of a clover, for good luck.

      Trying to shut out the memories, Stephanie sorted through the documents. She was surprised to find letters from Albert to Emily. The date was 1961, and the postmark was from Pecos, Texas, to the University of Texas in Austin, where Em had gone to college. There were at least sixty letters, all bundled with a ribbon. Stephanie put them aside to read later, when her heart wasn’t so wounded. At last she found the will. She hadn’t realized how much she’d been afraid the document was gone until her fingers curled around it. She opened it up and read the simple terms. The ranch and all contents had been left to her with the instruction that she create a trust.

      She gazed out the window and saw Hank and Rodney riding off on two of Rodney’s personal horses. Thank goodness for the wrangler. There wouldn’t be a grazing animal on the place if he hadn’t kept his own.

      The empty fields made her think of the terms of the trust. Albert had seen the handwriting on the wall. Subdivisions and developments had begun to eat away at the ranches. Land was more valuable for a home site than a pasture, so he’d left instruction in his will that McCammon Ranch remain a working ranch. The profits from cattle sales were to be plowed back into the ranch, for hands and materials to keep it going. The house, should Stephanie choose not to live in it, would be the residence of the ranch foreman.

      It was a gift to future generations of Texans, those who might never see a working ranch, except for one created by a trust.

      Stephanie gripped the document tightly. She had every intention of seeing Albert’s dream come true. Now all she had to do was find out what in the hell was going on and who in the hell had put a For Sale sign on the ranch.

      She went to the phone and dialed information for Kemper Realty, the firm on the sign. In a moment she was talking to the realty receptionist.

      “Who listed McCammon Ranch?” she asked.

      “That would be Todd Hughes,” the woman said. “Would you like to speak to him?”

      “More than you’ll ever know,” she said sweetly.

      In a moment she heard a baritone voice identifying himself as Todd Hughes.

      “I’m Stephanie Chisholm,” she said, listening to the silence on the other end. “I just ran over a For Sale sign on my ranch. What can you tell me about it?”

      “Ms. Chisholm?” There was disbelief in his voice. “I had no idea you were in town. I was led to believe you wouldn’t be coming for the funeral. Where are you staying?”

      “In my home.”

      There was another long pause. “I believe you need to talk to Nate Peebles.”

      “Who the hell is that?” she asked, her voice still sugary sweet.

      “He’s an attorney.” Hughes cleared his throat. “He owns McCammon Ranch. Or at least he will when the will is probated. He’s the one who told me to put up the sign.”

      Stephanie dropped into one of Uncle Albert’s hand-made chairs. “He what?”

      “Albert McCammon left the ranch to him. I saw the will myself. The process of probating it has already been started. It’s just a matter of time before—“

      “He ordered the livestock sold?” Stephanie knew she was shouting and didn’t care. In the bottom of her heart, she’d thought it was a mistake. That someone, acting on Albert’s best interests, had taken it upon themselves to sell the stock. She’d thought it would be a matter of explanation and everything would be put right. Now, she saw her assumption had been wrong. Dead wrong.

      “Mr. Hughes. I have my uncle’s will in my hand. It states clearly the ranch goes to me, so that I can establish a working ranch trust, per my uncle’s wishes. I advise you to take the ranch off the market.

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