Spurs 'n Surrender (Operation Cowboy Book 2)(4)
Anya pivoted on her stool to look at Marty. “That’s my investment?”
He eyed her. “What do you think?”
She hopped off the stool. Her bare feet hit the floor and she went to the control panel to start the footage from the beginning. Excitement rolled through her. Yes, she could help these people. Her granddaddy’s money could go to rebuilding. She was never going to spend it all in ten lifetimes. But that town—those people—needed it.
And she could fund the vacation house project to kick it off.
Spinning to her financial advisor, she flashed a grin so wide she felt her cheek dimple. “Set it up. Make it happen, Marty. But one thing—I’m going myself.”
*
Sweat rolled out from under the brim of Wydell’s hat, zigzagging into the corner of his eye. He squinted against the sting and swiped it away with a gloved hand just in time for a second rivulet to follow.
“It’s as hot as Satan’s ass.” In Texas, that was saying a lot. He bent to pick up a splintered board that had once been someone’s doorframe and threw it into a wagon to be burned. Money in town was too tight to pitch everything into dumpsters, so they burned what wood they could.
“Yes, Corporal, it’s sure hot as fuck, sir.” His friend Garrett’s tone mimicked that of a Marine.
Wydell tossed him a wry grin. “Dipshit.” He didn’t mind being reminded of his time in the service. He’d had four close friends who’d seen him through some of the best and worst moments of his life, after all. But they’d come home as four instead of five. That weighed on them all every day, even if they never spoke of Matt’s death.
“Let’s break for a drink,” Garrett suggested, leaning on the handle of his shovel.
“Nah, you go on. I want to finish this bit.” Wydell kept separating junk. Hinges, doorknobs. A muddy scrap of fabric that was probably a curtain. A bottle of pills.
He didn’t need to read the bottle to know who they belonged to. The elderly couple who’d lived in this home had both been on medications. Now they were living in a retirement community two towns over. Wydell wondered if they ever wanted to come home.
With a grunt he heaved the rest of the splintered doorframe into the wagon. Back aching, he leaned to stretch and two vertebrae popped. Garrett was leaning against the wagon, drinking from a thermos and looking into the distance.
Wydell followed his stare to the head of the road. At one time trees had lined the roadsides, but they’d been so mangled they had to be one of the first things removed. The money didn’t stretch that far, though, and a lot of broken trees were still standing sentry as macabre reminders of what they’d lost.
Silver glinted. Wydell shook his head and squinted. When he couldn’t make out what he was seeing, he shielded his eyes with a hand.
“What the hell is that?” Garrett asked.
“Looks like a big silver bullet.”
“Or a Twinkie.”
“A silver Twinkie?” Wydell grunted in amusement. “Maybe it’s a tourist hauling his Airstream to town.” That was exactly what it was. One of those old Airstream trailers, shiny-bright, rolling into Los Vista behind an equally shiny new truck.
Garrett pulled away from the wagon and capped his thermos. Wydell drifted toward his friend. They stood side-by-side as they had when tanks rolled through Iraqi villages. Suddenly, he was back there, hearing the whoops and catcalls of the men he fought with daily. Lots of hell had been raised between sorties, as Marines celebrated living through the last mission and hoped to survive the next.
“Think it’s one of the townspeople coming back?” Garrett asked.
Wydell shook himself back to Texas. “Might be more media types. Let’s hope that silver Twinkie’s filled with money.”
Turned out, it was. When the polished little blonde climbed out of the truck, Wydell gave a low whistle under his breath.
Even from two hundred feet away, he could see she wore designer duds and her hair was perfect. Pastor Kent was first on the scene, the more or less official welcoming committee even in the worst of times. The blonde walked around the truck to greet him.
Wydell let his gaze roam over the woman’s long hair tied at her nape, down her spine to a round ass a man could sink his fingers—and teeth—into. She looked fit but not thin. Score one for Blondie—he liked a woman who didn’t mind sitting down to a good meal.
She turned into profile, but he was too far away to really make out her features. Oh well. If she were a news lady, she’d be in his face soon enough. They all wanted to ask about his idea to build vacation homes, which would bring restaurants, gas stations and other shops back to town. But it wasn’t like he’d found financial backing yet.
“Massive Rebuild” should be the headline, but those who’d gotten insurance money weren’t investing it back into Los Vista. They’d already moved on with their lives. This was Wydell’s life. He’d spent years choking on sand and putting his soul on the line so he could return to his hometown. He was damn well going to build it back up.
The pastor’s family emerged from their tent across the way and came to greet the newcomer. Blondie shook hands with the wife and spoke to their five children. As the pastor waved toward Wydell and Garrett, Blondie turned to look. The minute she faced forward, Wydell’s chest tightened.