Colter Gamblers: Gambling On A Heart Part 3

"We aren't missin' any cows." She giggled and hugged the raggedy stuffed animal. "So, none of 'em needs to come home."

It was an old ritual. He chuckled and stood, giving her one last kiss on her forehead and feathered back her black hair. "Then I'll have an even longer time to love you. Now go to sleep."

She nodded, yawning again. He tucked the sheet and comforter around her. For several moments after he'd turned out the light, he stood by the door until her breathing evened into sleep.

He snagged a beer from the fridge, then made his way into the big master bedroom next to Mandy's room. His grandparents had built on the master suite when they'd married. He'd completely gutted the bathroom and modernized it, much as he had the kitchen, when he'd moved in almost two years ago. He'd never be as good at carpentry as Dylan Quinn was. Dylan had practically rebuilt the old house on b.u.t.terfly Ranch, but Zack had learned from trial and error and called in the experts when he got in over his head. The work had helped him come to terms with living in a house he'd always dreamed of sharing with Tracy.

Like the rest of the house, the walls of the room were off-white and the wood trim aged oak, but the flooring was plush forest green carpet, which his feet sunk into as he crossed to the sliding gla.s.s door leading out onto the patio. He looked out over the darkened land. A horse whinnied in the distance, and from somewhere out on the ridge, a coyote howled for its mate. Stars twinkled overhead and the last of the season's fireflies flickered in the tall gra.s.s, which he really had to find the time to mow.

He drank from the longneck bottle. How many times had he and Tracy lain on the bank of the lake out in the pasture with fireflies dancing around them?

He gulped down more beer and turned away from the yard. What the h.e.l.l was wrong with him? She'd cheated on him with his best friend. Regardless of what Mandy was planning in that precocious little mind of hers, he was never falling in love again. It hurt too d.a.m.n much when it all fell apart.

Setting the bottle on the patio table, he pulled his smart phone from his pocket and checked his voicemail. The only message was from his mother-in-law wanting to know if he'd considered coming to Wyoming for Thanksgiving.

He supposed he should think about it. The Fosters had only seen their granddaughter a half-dozen times since Lisa's death two years ago, and for all of those times, they'd come to Texas. But he wasn't ready to go back. He'd sworn he'd never set foot in Wyoming again after Lisa's death.

Surprised not to have a call from his second in command, he dialed Dawn Madison's cell number. She answered and he asked, "Madison, what's going on?"

"Sheriff, it's your day off. Why the h.e.l.l are you calling me?"

"Because I am the sheriff and figure it's my duty to know if the people who elected me are safe."

"Well, other than watching Simms get fatter with each creampuff he stuffs into his mouth and listening to Grant complaining about not getting any, all's well in Dodge."

He winced and looked up at the starry heavens. Larry Simms was on his way to clogging his every artery. Zack tried to promote good health among his deputies, but Larry didn't care. Zack only prayed the man didn't croak on county time. The paperwork would be a b.i.t.c.h. Doug Grant wasn't the only one not getting any, but Grant's reasonhis wife had just had a babywas a temporary one. There was definite light at the end of his forced celibacy tunnel. Zack's was a black hole.

"So, are Kennedy and Timmons out on patrol?" he asked, even though he already knew the answer. "Those cattle rustlers are getting bold."

"Boss, do you take me for an idiot?"

"Of course not."

"Good. I wouldn't want to think you doubted my abilities because I'm a woman."

He laughed and shook his head. He was sometimes slow on the uptake, but he got the point this time loud and clear. "Madison, you and I both know I don't think that."

"Then why the h.e.l.l are you calling on your night off?"

He sighed and picked up the beer. Because, besides my daughter, my ranch, and my job, I don't have a life. "Take care, Dawn. Call me if you need backup."

"Goodnight, Zack." She hung up.

He slipped the phone into his pocket and finished off the beer.

As he glanced out over the last of the summer fireflies, Tracy drifted into his mind like a phantom. The huskiness of her voice, the s.e.xy whisper of her laughter, the way she bit her lip when she was unsure of herself. With her heels, she was almost as tall as him. Could he still fit his hands the entire way around her waist as he had back when they'd dated? He clenched his hand at the surge of desire to try it sometime.

The dance they'd been obligated to share had been pure torture. The short blue dress showed off her long, long legs and the flawless, creamy skin of her shoulders. She smelled like suns.h.i.+ne and honey. He'd purposely held her away from him and refused to look at her. If he hadn't done both, he honestly wasn't sure what would have happened.

He'd convinced himself he hated her. Then, last year, he'd called her to come down to the jail to pick up her brother after a drunken binge. As they'd contrived ways to help Dylan, he'd been exposed to the side of Tracy he'd fallen head over heels for when they were thirteenher inner beauty, her tenacity, her compa.s.sion.

Qualities she bestowed on him, even though he'd given her a nickname she'd never outgrown: Olive Oyl.

Zack's mind returned to her skimpy dress and the way it showed off her body. He'd always loved her long legs. He sucked in a breath at the image of the low-cut dress that made her b.r.e.a.s.t.s seem bigger.

Tracy had been self-conscious of how small she was back when they'd dated. However, once he'd discovered how sensitive her nipples were, he couldn't get enough of them. He'd never known a woman who could almost o.r.g.a.s.m with just having her b.r.e.a.s.t.s stimulated. Had Jake, or the man she'd left Jake for, been able to push her over the edge?

"d.a.m.n." He shook the question from his head and re-entered the bedroom. Remembering his time with Tracy was as s.a.d.i.s.tic as thinking about his and Lisa's last fight.

He tossed the bottle into the garbage can by his dresser and headed for the shower.

Four in the morning came too d.a.m.n early. Tonight was going to be one of those nights. He was strung as tight as his brother's guitar strings.

Chapter 3.

"How was the Rangers game?"

Jake Parker looked across the console of the semi-truck cab at his brother. Younger by five years, Brent still reminded Jake of a baby with his round face and potbelly. "How the h.e.l.l am I 'posed to know?"

Brent beetled his flabby brow as they neared Highway-6. "Didn't you go to the baseball game?"

Jake geared down the truck when the intersection came into view. No one was out at this hour in the morning. "I didn't even have tickets."

"But Bobby told me the other day you were going." Brent chuckled and folded his hands over his gut. "The kid was mad as a hornet he couldn't go 'cause of Dylan's weddin' to that pretty little filly who bought Uncle Jock's place."

Jake snorted, stopped at the stop sign, and turned left to head north on Highway 6. "I only told Bobby I wanted to take him to the game to mess with the b.i.t.c.h. I knew he'd cause Tracy all kinds of h.e.l.l at the wedding."

Brent shook his head. "You're one hard b.a.s.t.a.r.d, bro. I hope I never get on your bad side."

"Then don't ever double-cross me."

In the side mirror, Jake watched their cousin Johnny Blackwell head south.

"Don't worry. I won't." Brent reached for the radio dial and turned it on to a cla.s.sic country station. Soon the cab was filled with harmonica and guitar music and the voice of Willie singing about blue eyes crying in the rain. "So, are you still determined to try to get full custody of Bobby?"

"d.a.m.n straight. I'm suing Tracy for support, too." Jake glanced at his younger brother with a smirk. "I know just what to do, too. She's rich now that she inherited all that money from her grandfather. I deserve to have some of it, don't I?"

Brent shrugged and fiddled with the seatbelt over his paunch. "I don't know how you survived being married into that family. Her brother and father are two arrogant a.s.sholes."

Jake glanced at his brother. "Fortunately, General d.i.c.khead and GI p.r.i.c.k were off saving the world when me and Tracy were married."

They approached the town square and stopped at the red light. He tapped the steering wheel, looking out the side window at the old courthouse and the ma.s.sive tree in the front of itthe Tree of Justice, it had been dubbed over the years. A s.h.i.+ver slithered down his spine at the sight of the old oak tree where his forbearer Elijah Blackwell, along with his cousins Cole Cartwright and Dylan Ferguson, had hanged anyone who broke the law in their county a century and a half ago.

"Well, Tracy's still always been too d.a.m.ned skinny," Brent said. "I can't imagine what you saw in her."

Jake s.h.i.+fted the truck into gear, thankful the light turned green. The town was too d.a.m.ned spooky in the dark. "Tracy might be skinny, but she's s.e.xy skinnyall long legs and tiny waist. I'd still f.u.c.k her if she'd let me."

Brent shook his head. "She has no a.s.s or t.i.ts. Huh-uh. Not me. I want some meat on my woman. h.e.l.l, she doesn't even have anything to hold onto. Popeye can have Olive Oyl."

Jake laughed and s.h.i.+fted the trunk into a higher gear. He wasn't about to tell his brother just how wild in the sack normally shy, sedate Tracy Quinn was. At least, she was until she found out he didn't love her.

"Speaking of Popeye and Olive Oyl." Brent fiddled with his seatbelt. "Is it true Tracy is seeing Zack Cartwright again?"

Jake spared Brent a glace. He'd almost forgotten who gave her that nickname.

Brent's blubbery gut jiggled from laughter. "Don't you get it? Tracy is Olive Oyl and Zack was a MarinePopeye was a sail"

"I get it. I'm hoping she is screwin' Sheriff a.s.shole because that's how I'm gonna get Bobby. I refuse to let that p.r.i.c.k anywhere near my son."

Brent held out his hands. "Whoa. Bro, you need to get over this anger you have with him."

"I'd be playing professional football right now if it wasn't for high and mighty Zack Cartwright. I'll never forget what he did to me."

"You know that almost sounds like crazy talk, Jake." Brent sucked in a deep breath, bent over his belly and reached down between his legs to get the plastic grocery sack at his feet. He pushed his hair back from his fat face before he pulled a bag of pork rinds and a bottle of Dr. Pepper from the sack. He held the bag toward Jake, who winced and shook his head. Brent shrugged and stuffed one of the disgusting deep fried pieces of pig skin into his mouth.

"Speaking of crazy people," Brent said around the crunching of the fried fat. "You know, I'm still a little freaked by the fact Leon Ferguson was Uncle Jock's sonand that Leon killed his own father."

Jake shrugged and let some of the tension leave his shoulders. They'd cross the county line in another few miles. The closer to Fort Worth they got, the easier it was to get lost within the metropolitan morning traffic. The eastern sky was beginning to purple with predawn light.

As a van pa.s.sed them, he said, "I'm not surprised about Leon killing anyone. He was one sneaky, cold-hearted somb.i.t.c.h, 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. They have Jock's crazy genes. Mom missed getting those from Granny Blackwell, I guess."

"I agree. 'Cause I sure as h.e.l.l ain't crazy. But I don't know 'bout you," Brent mumbled.

"Ha, ha. You're a f.u.c.kin' comedian tonight." Jake glared at his brother. How the h.e.l.l 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.ds 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 h.e.l.l 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 breakfasta 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 c.r.a.pprobably 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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s and pork chops and served them with rice from a box and bag of frozen vegetablesjust 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 a.s.sured 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 pancakesfrom organic wholegrain flour, b.u.t.termilk 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 antic.i.p.ation in his blue eyes as she took those first bites still burned in her psyche. After she'd a.s.sured 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 dis.h.i.+ng 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 n.o.ble of them." Tracy spread b.u.t.ter 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'sand 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 a.s.sociationTSCRAare a.s.sisting 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 gla.s.ses. "I'm surprised Cartwright didn't mention this yesterday at the wedding."