“Did you stay at Graylings last night?” she asked.
He laughed softly. “Some house,” he mused. “Makes Skyhorn look like a shack.”
“I love your house,” she argued. “It’s beautiful inside. It’s warm and comfortable, even the furniture just fits. It isn’t right to compare houses, anyway. Ours is the way Daddy left it,” she added with a cold expression. “Sari and I are going to remodel it as soon as Mr. Leeds’s hit man goes away. Which I hope will be very soon.”
“I hope so, too, honey. But in the meantime, you have excellent protection.”
“You mean our bodyguards.”
“Them, too. But it seems that Cousin Mikey has placed a few more, shall we say, unconventional people around here to help out.”
“So that’s it,” she murmured.
“That’s what?”
“The nurses said there were some very odd men carrying brooms and mops and pushing trays around the hospital. They weren’t sure why they’d been hired, because they didn’t actually do anything.”
“Oh, they do something. They watch your room.”
She grinned. “Mikey’s a pirate.”
He chuckled. “He’s a nice pirate. A good guy to have on your side.”
“Yes, he is.” She drew in a breath. “They must still be giving me something for pain. I’m so sleepy!”
“Why don’t you nap for a bit, and I’ll go see what Jacobsville has in the way of men’s clothing?” he asked.
“They have boots and jeans and chambray shirts, mostly,” she said drowsily.
“I might turn up something a little snazzier than that,” he said.
“Not too snazzy, or somebody might mistake you for the hit man.”
“I’m too tall,” he joked. “It’s a known fact that hit men are small and bald.”
“Is it, really?” She managed one last smile, then fell asleep.
He got up, dropped a gentle kiss on her forehead and left the room. Right outside it, one man was leaning on a mop, another on a broom. They grinned at him.
He grinned back and kept walking.
*
HE FOUND AN exclusive men’s clothing store, to his surprise, right on the main drag in Jacobsville. He found some pants and shirts and a nice jacket, along with a spiffy new Stetson—the first new one he’d bought in years. He put them in the luxury rental car he’d found on a local lot—it was a surprise to find one in a small town like this—and went into the nearby café for lunch.
He was surprised when people looked up from their meals to stare at him. Feeling self-conscious, he went up to the counter and ordered a burger and fries.
“You’re not from around here,” a tall, nice-looking middle-aged blonde woman asked, smiling.
“No. I’m from Wyoming,” he said as he paid the ticket.
“You’re Ren Colter.”
His expression was just short of shock. “Well...yes.”
“How’s Merrie?” a customer behind him asked. “Is she going to be okay?”
“Yes. She’s out of ICU now, and doing much better,” he said.
A tall man in a business suit, wearing a Stetson about as expensive as Ren’s, paused beside him on the way out. “Tell her the Ballengers asked about her, will you?” he asked. “I’m Justin. My brother Calhoun and I own the local feed lot.”
Ren grinned and shook hands with him. “You fed out some cattle for me two years ago,” he said. “Nice job, too.”
Justin chuckled. “Thanks. I’m running most of the business now that my brother won the US Senate race and is now our junior Texas senator in Washington, DC. He’s not home a lot.”
“If he can find a way to keep government out of our ranches,” Ren said, tongue in cheek, “I’ll send him a Christmas card every year.”
“That’s what I told him,” Justin agreed with a grin.
“What are you doing loafing around in here?” Cash Grier asked Justin with a mock scowl. “You’ve got two bull yearlings out on the highway just outside the city limits. Hayes Carson says he’s going to cite you for feeding your livestock on county land.”
Justin chuckled and shook hands with Cash. “Times are hard and grazing’s spotty in the fall,” he said. “Come over for supper sometime and bring Tippy and the kids.”
“We don’t get out much in the evenings,” Cash returned. “We sit and watch the baby sleep.”
“Been there, done that,” Justin said. “All my boys are in college now.” He shook his head. “Time flies.”
“So true. See you.”
“See you.” Cash turned to Ren. “You ordered already?”
“Yes.”
“Barbara, how about a bowl of chili and black coffee for the overworked and underfunded police department?” he called to her.
“Coming up, Chief.” He stuck a five-dollar bill down on the counter and led Ren to a table near the window.
“It’s the cops! Hide the automatic weapons!” a cowboy piped up.
“You don’t have any automatic weapons, Fowler,” Cash shot back.
“How do you know?” Harley Fowler joked. “I might have one in my boot!”
“No self-respecting weapon would stick its muzzle in there,” Cash said disdainfully.
“Who’s the tall stranger?” Harley persisted. “That Miss Merrie’s feller?”
Ren burst out laughing.