Spurs 'n Surrender (Operation Cowboy Book 2)(2)

It smelled of old lady despite its newness—fresh laundry and cookies and some powdery scent he associated with his own grandmother.

He looked around the space. If he spread his arms, he was pretty sure he could touch each wall, and the ceiling seemed to sit right on top of his hat. But he was a big guy—it was just the right size for Mrs. Fletcher.

She smiled up at him. Even her wrinkles had smiles, and he couldn’t help but return the sentiment. She bustled to the counter, where she had a hammer, a handful of nails and a wooden shelf.

“I found this shelf lying in what’s left of my house. Fifty years I lived there. Such a shame…” She shook her head, and wisps of white hair swirled around her face. “But now I have this beautiful new trailer my family bought me. What do you think, Mr. Jackson?”

He bobbed his head in approval as he looked around, pretending he wasn’t feeling claustrophobic as hell. “I think your family did right by you.”

“I raised good kids. Now I’d like to show off my grandbabies.”

“Where do you want the shelf?” He took it from her, along with the hammer and nails.

She led him into the living area and pointed at a wall above a sofa sporting a hectic floral pattern. “Right there, so I can see them while I watch my soaps. And Wheel of Fortune, of course.”

The corner of his mouth tipped up, and he stuck the nails in his teeth. He held up the shelf and she gave him instructions up and down. When she was satisfied, he measured the hooks on the back of the shelf using his hand span. He stretched thumb and pinky along the wood then wall.

“Just how long is that, Mr. Jackson?”

“Eleven inches, ma’am,” he said around the nails and began to hammer the first one.

The trailer walls were flimsy but he managed to find enough wood for the nails to bite into. Once the shelf was in place, he stood back with Mrs. Fletcher and eyed it. She clapped her hands and hurried to a side table, where picture frames were stacked. Wydell helped her position them, then she gave him a smile that would fuel him for the rest of the day.

While shoveling broken glass and hefting twisted metal, he would think of people like Mrs. Fletcher, so happy to have something resembling a normal home again. Though when the reporters had come to town, they’d interviewed her in front of a tent to make it look worse.

“Thank you so much. Let me give you a little something.” She headed for her purse, but he stopped her with a hand on her shoulder.

“I won’t take your money, but I’ll have a few of those cookies for later if you don’t mind.”

Her eyes lit more. “Of course you will. Have as many as you want.”

When he left the trailer, he dragged in a deep breath of country air. With half a dozen cookies in a plastic bag, he felt almost human too. But being inside close quarters like that hadn’t done him any favors. He moved his shoulders as if stretching them and sucked in more grass-scented air.

He wasn’t breathing in noxious smoke or looking at death and destruction in Iraq. No, he was home. And soon he’d build this town back to its original state. Then maybe a pretty Los Vista girl would come back, start giving him doe eyes and they’d end up hitched.

As he got back into his truck and trundled down the deserted main road with side streets leading to nothing, he pushed out a sigh. First things first—clear out the rest of this section of town so he could build a new dream.



*



Anya’s cell phone played The Band Perry’s “You Lie,” and she groaned. The ringtone was reserved for calls that weren’t in her contacts list. She pulled the phone from her back pocket and glared at the screen.

If only it were a telemarketer telling her she’d won a cruise to the Bahamas. But no, it was probably one of the dozens of people who asked her for money daily.

Inheriting her grandparents’ estate was making her life difficult. Besides owning a huge house she rattled around alone in, she had more money than Donald Trump, depending on who you asked. She was rich, rolling in it, could wallpaper her bathroom with hundred-dollar bills if she wanted to.

Too bad she couldn’t buy some privacy. Sometimes she thought her cell number must be posted right under the town’s welcome sign.

She slammed her phone on the marble countertop and looked around her empty kitchen. When the locals learned she’d inherited, they considered her stupid or a soft touch. They showed up on her doorstep one after the other to tell her about some cause or cure she could contribute to. They fed her family hardship stories as if it was an all-you-can-eat buffet.

But she couldn’t get past the money-grubbing looks in their eyes.

She wasn’t easy prey, and her checkbook was staying locked up.

As she reached into a cupboard for a box of healthy cereal, her cell rang again. This tone was reserved for the most important man in her life—her financial advisor.

She put him on speakerphone while she moved around the kitchen to find a bowl, spoon and milk. “Hi Marty.”

“Hello, Princess.” It was a joke of the older man’s to call her the nickname her granddaddy had used. He knew it irritated her too, which was why he sounded joyful as hell. “How many calls today?”

“Two, and it’s not even eight o’clock.” She opened the box and poured her cereal.

“Only two? It’s dying down.”