The Ranger Read online

  She nodded. “If you’ll have a seat at one of the tables, I’ll locate the maps and bring them over, along with the network password and the internet address for the county deeds and records office.”

  He did as instructed, choosing a table near the window where the light would be good. Once he had the map location and owners pinned down, he could check to see whether taxes had ever been paid for mineral rights on any of the properties. There were lucrative deposits of oil and gas all over Texas, the nearby Permian Basin containing one of the largest.

  He could understand Marshall Thomason wanting to buy out ranchers who might be sitting on valuable oil reserves, but as far as he knew, there was no guarantee the Triple A had any. They had certainly never authorized any company to explore and find out. So why would Thomason want their land?

  Maybe he didn’t. Maybe, if he was in fact behind the incidents, it was just pure meanness, trying to aggravate a man his name and status didn’t impress, who’d never shown him the deference Thomason felt his wealth and his important family connections deserved.

  With nothing to do but wait, Brice found himself watching Miss No-Nonsense Librarian. With her severe hairdo, glasses and ugly dress, she could be a caricature of the Old Maid Librarian, despite the pretty eyes he noticed behind the heavy glasses. What had soured her on life?

  Her demeanor might shout “old maid—men stay away” but her movements were graceful, almost athletic. Brice wondered if she’d been a gymnast or a dancer. Certainly she balanced the wide, unwieldy maps she was extracting from the map case with ease. He caught himself before he invited a snub by asking if he could give her a hand.

  Miss Williams would probably tell him, with a disapproving stare, that she was fully capable of Doing It All Herself.

  The occupational hazard of law enforcement—meeting someone, he instinctively began to evaluate them, figure out their background, and decide whether the way they presented themselves matched their appearance. Miss Mary Williams was something of a puzzle. But he figured if the woman had had a bad experience with men and wanted to avoid them, becoming a reference librarian where she dealt mostly with dusty maps and moldy papers was probably an excellent occupation.

  Dressing like she did, too, would eliminate any second looks that might notice the pretty eyes and dark hair and prompt a man to try to get to know her better.

  A few minutes later, after extracting a card from her desk drawer and scrawling a note on it, she brought the maps over and spread them carefully on a table adjacent to the one he’d chosen with the computer.

  “Some of the maps are too large to fit on the computer table, so I’ll leave them here. You can review them and move over to do your online search. Here’s the password and URL.” She handed him the card. “You may view the maps for as long as you like, or until the library closes. As I’m sure Miss Shirley told you, reference materials can’t be checked out. Just leave them on the table when you are finished. I’ll put them away later.”

  “Thank you, Miss Williams,” he said, trying another smile.

  Which received no more response than the first. Returning a short nod, Mary Williams walked back to her desk and back to her work, doing an excellent job of ignoring him.

  *

  For next few hours, Brice looked over maps, checked the deed and tax records online and made some notes. Only a few of the farms and ranches on the back road along which Duncan told him Thomason had purchased properties had ever recorded paying taxes on mineral rights or royalties. Even on those, the amounts paid were low, indicating that the area probably wasn’t rich with easily obtainable oil and gas. If the reserves on the ranches that had been tapped were modest, there was less likelihood that a neighboring property would contain a big enough bonanza of oil, gas, onyx or gypsum to make it worthwhile for Thomason to purchase it.

  Of course, he’d only done a cursory search. Warranty deeds for property that didn’t specifically mention the mineral rights supposedly indicated those rights belonged to the property owners. But sometimes, previous owners leased or sold mineral rights without filing a separate mineral rights deed, leaving the status of the mineral rights cloudy, even if the new owner had a valid warranty deed. New landowners in Texas were always advised to have a detailed title search done before they tried to exploit any mineral assets on their property, a laborious and often expensive proposition.

  Given the little he’d uncovered, he didn’t think it probable that Thomason, more concerned about his own profits than enriching anyone else, would have wanted to hire the expensive expertise of a “landman,” a specialist whose sole job was to trace out mineral rights from surface property rights, usually on behalf of an oil or gas company interested in drilling on the property.

  The only thing the properties possessed in common was a border along the county road that formed the western barrier of the Triple A. Which, his instincts told him, if Thomason were trying to sabotage operations and make the Triple A so unprofitable that Duncan and Grant were forced to sell off part of the land, it didn’t appear to have anything to do with mineral rights.

  Still, the fact that the property bordered the Triple A made him suspect that, if there were in fact harassment and Thomason was behind it, the reason still had to be something about the land. Though he had no idea what.

  Standing, he stretched out his back, stiff from bending over the maps, and walked over to the reference desk, where Miss Williams sat working on a desktop computer. “I’m finished with them, ma’am,” he said. “Sure I can’t bring them over to the desk for you?”

  “No, thank you, I’d prefer to handle them myself.”

  Miss Shirley would have asked him if he’d found what he needed, or whether she could get him something else, or at least bid him goodbye. Mary Williams, after giving him another short nod he took as a dismissal, returned her attention to her computer and went back to ignoring him.

  It shouldn’t have annoyed him—what did it matter whether Whiskey River’s reference librarian liked him or not? But her barely polite demeanor and extreme disinterest seemed . . . deliberate, somehow. Not antagonistic, exactly, but . . . wary.

  Why should a woman he’d never met before be wary of him?

  The question tweaking his lawman’s curiosity even further, with a frown, he walked out.

  Chapter Two

  Mary kept her eyes on her computer until the sound of Brice McAllister’s footsteps faded, then breathed out a sigh of relief. She’d known who he was as soon as he said his name, though he hadn’t known her. She’d made it her business to find out everything she could about the local families when she moved to Whiskey River, wanting to evaluate who she might safely see, and who she should avoid—like anyone connected with law enforcement. Not that she personally had any reason to avoid officers of the law, but better to know who she might be dealing with, so she could prevent any unpleasant surprises.

  The last person she wanted to get to know better was a Texas Ranger. Simply being aware of what he did for a living had made her nervous and edgy the whole time he was in the room. Though part of that unease, she acknowledged, was due to the fact that despite her wariness, disturbingly, she still found him attractive.

  Tall, broad-shouldered, powerfully built, he looked like the football player she’s heard he’d been. In addition to that attractive frame and his handsome face, he’d employed a smile that could charm the panties off a nun to try to beguile her into opening up with him. Resisting that temptation had made her short to the point of rudeness, she thought ruefully, a little ashamed now at her curtness.

  At least it meant she wouldn’t have to worry about the alarming fact that she actually found him attractive. If her unflattering garb hadn’t already discouraged him from wanting to further the acquaintance, her chilly demeanor certainly would.

  She still wasn’t interested in becoming friendly with any man, her response to even the handsomest usually a dull apathy. But she had to admit, for the first time since Ian’s death, she’
d felt . . . something. A niggle of attraction. A tiny crumb of interest.

  For a Texas Ranger. How stupid was that? Proof positive that her brain still wasn’t working normally about the subject of men.

  He’d viewed his maps, taken some notes, and left without indicating he needed more time, so she didn’t think he’d be returning. She knew he was based in Austin, so she was unlikely to see him around town very often.

  Which, given her odd reaction to him, was a very good thing.

  Which also meant she didn’t need to waste any more time worrying about him or that atypical reaction. It was almost closing time. She’d refile the maps and head home.

  *

  Half an hour later, the reference room tidied for the night, Mary walked out into the main library to see Shirley standing at her desk, keys in hand. “I was just going to come and see if you were ready to leave.”

  “On my way out,” Mary confirmed.

  “Good, I’ll lock up behind you.” As Mary reached the desk, Shirley added, “Well, what did you think?”

  Mary looked at her blankly. She didn’t recall her supervisor tasking her with something. “Think about what?”

  Shirley shook her head in exasperation. “Honestly, dear, I begin to despair of you. About Brice McAllister, of course! He and his brothers are about the handsomest things in cowboy boots and Stetsons in Whiskey River, and he’s the only single brother left. I’ve known all three since they were boys, and you couldn’t find nicer, more courteous and considerate men anywhere. Their dear mother would have been proud. She died when they were young, you see. Their daddy brought in one of her cousins to help him with the boys. Ended up marrying her. Which he should have, because she’s a wonderful lady and raised those boys right. Duncan, the oldest, runs the ranch, and Grant, after some time in the Marines, came back to help him. Brice went into law enforcement. Applied to become a Ranger once he had enough time in and got the appointment—which is quite a feat. They don’t take many. He doesn’t get to town too often, but you might look for him when he does. Couldn’t find a finer young man and I guarantee, he knows how to treat a lady.”

  Mary listened patiently. Shirley was a kind boss and a sweet woman who’d gone above and beyond to look out for Mary when she first arrived in Whiskey River, recommending a cottage to rent and helping her settle in. But as an older widow from a previous generation, she was certain Mary’s life couldn’t be satisfying or complete without a man in it. She made a point of discussing any single man who came to the reference room who showed even remotest potential of becoming husband material.

  Mary had to admit, Brice McAllister was the most attractive of all the men Shirley had urged on her. She felt a momentary pang of—regret, perhaps, or sadness—at what her solitary life might be causing her to miss.

  Maybe someday, she’d feel ready to explore the possibility of including a man in her life again. Someday, a long time from now.

  “If he’s that handsome, charming, and well brought up, I’m sure he doesn’t lack for feminine company.”

  “A good man needs a good woman; that’s all I’m saying,” Shirley said. “Couldn’t do better, if he interested you, and you’d be good for him too. A nice, intelligent, hardworking girl like you who behaves like a real lady is hard to find these days. Most young women are so flighty, flirting with anything in pants. And the way they dress! Strutting down the street in clothes so tight and revealing, it’s as if walking there were their profession.”

  “Not a fan of skintight jeans and halter tops?”

  Shirley shuddered. “Certainly not on women of my age. You’d think they would know better. Even the younger ones need to be slim and shapely for it to be attractive, though it’s still too revealing, in my opinion. I much prefer your modest dresses.”

  Mary suppressed a smile. Apparently the older woman had jumped off the style train so long ago, she didn’t see the difference between “modest” and “downright unflattering.”

  “Thanks, Shirley. I do appreciate you looking out for me.”

  Shirley sighed. “I just wish I could do more. It’s one thing for me, who had thirty wonderful years with my Warren, to go home to an empty house. I just hate to see you, with all you have to offer, spending your life all alone.”

  “You don’t need to worry,” Mary reassured her with a smile. “I’m never alone. I have wonderful neighbors. And my books.”

  “Maybe so, but I’d rather you had something a little warmer to cuddle up with at night than the latest novel! But I’ve nagged you enough. Have a good evening, dear. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Yes, see you then. Good night,” Mary said, walking out so the head librarian could lock up after her.

  It might be nice to have something warm to cuddle up with at night, Mary thought as she walked to her car.

  Maybe she should get a dog.

  *

  She might be the only occupant of her house, but it still made her smile every time she pulled into her driveway. The little craftsman cottage with its pretty front porch, wide old pine floors, large windows, living room with fireplace, tidy kitchen with a tiny dining nook and deck overlooking a large backyard, was everything she’d wanted when she moved from the big city to the sleepy town of Whiskey River.

  After all the pain and loss, despite the loneliness, it warmed her heart to walk into a place that was exactly what she’d always imagined she, Ian and their children would live in.

  “You would have loved it, Ian,” she said aloud before she caught herself. Would she ever stop talking to him? Although it had been more than three years now since she’d lost him, he still occupied such a large part of her heart she sometimes had trouble believing he was really gone.

  Nor was there anyone to overhear her. Living far away from everything and everyone she’d once loved, if it comforted her to talk to him, what did it matter?

  She did talk with real people, too, after all. Shirley at work, and her next-door neighbors. She smiled again as she pictured Bunny’s crooked smile. The little girl was insatiably curious about everything and seemed to enjoy spending time with Mary as much as Mary enjoyed her company. Her mom, Elaine, had become a good friend and Bunny’s dad, Tom, a mortgage banker in town, was going to help Mary arrange to buy the cottage, now that she’d decided she would settle in Whiskey River permanently.

  She hadn’t been sure exactly what she was looking for when she’d moved half a continent away from the place she grew up, except that she was certain that life as she’d always known it was no longer possible. She’d sought the complete opposite: a small town with a sleepy pace, isolation from family, reliance only on herself.

  Whiskey River had given her a fresh start and more. A job she enjoyed—what reading fanatic wouldn’t love being surrounded all day by books? A boss who encouraged and supported her. A lovely home she’d been able to furnish exactly to her taste. A backyard large enough to plant the garden of her dreams, though she was still learning which plants would survive in the brutal Texas summers. Neighbors who were kind and supportive without being nosy and intrusive. And Bunny, the sweet child she would never have, whose kind parents allowed her to borrow as often as she liked.

  Maybe she’d harvest some tomatoes and fresh basil before she made dinner and cook up some tomato sauce to bring over when she babysat Bunny this weekend. Or better still, she’d wait until Bunny came over and have the six-year-old help her. The child loved poking around her extensive garden and seemed to always find it amazing that they could turn into dinner something she picked herself.

  Maybe she’d show Bunny how to make homemade pasta to go with the tomato sauce.

  A bittersweet warmth welled up. She might never stop mourning that she couldn’t have a child of her own, but Bunny’s presence in her life was a precious, special blessing.

  With a fulfilling job, a cozy cottage, good friends who lived next door, and a charmer like Bunny to love, what did Mary need with a man?

  *

  On a sparkl
ing sunny morning two days later, Brice walked the few blocks from the B&B to the home of his high school football buddy, Tom Edgerton. It had been several months since he’d had time to visit with Tom, his wife, Elaine, and their little girl, the six-year-old charmer who did him the honor of calling him “Uncle Brice.”

  He smiled as he approached the old rambling Victorian house with its large wraparound porch. Though it was much grander than the simple country ranch house Brice had grown up in, the Victorian, with its whimsical turrets and fishtail-siding details and that welcoming porch, had always seemed like a home ready to embrace family and friends.

  After striding up the stairs, he rang the front doorbell. A moment later, Elaine opened it. “Brice, welcome! I’m so glad you made the time to see us,” she cried, giving him a hug. “Tom’s out playing an early round of golf with the branch manager, but he should be back soon.”

  “The branch manager? I take it this golf game is more work than pleasure.”

  “True, although he does like the guy, fortunately. Coffee’s in the carafe and the blueberry scones are about ready.”

  “Sounds great! You’re looking well! How go the yoga classes?”

  “I’ve had a great enrollment this summer. In addition to my usual adult classes, I started one for high school girls. Yoga is so good for balance, poise, and toning the body. Just the thing to bolster the self-esteem of high schoolers, who so often need the boost.”

  “Speaking of girls, where’s my sweetheart?”

  “Bunny’s overnighting with a school friend, but she’ll be home by noon. When she found out you were coming this morning, she almost made me call her mother’s friend and cancel the overnight! She wouldn’t miss a chance to see Uncle Brice.”

  “I can’t wait to see her.”

  As she walked him into the kitchen, she said, “Pour yourself a coffee. The scones are already in the oven, so they won’t take long. It’s such a pretty morning—not beastly hot yet—I thought we’d sit and eat them out on the back porch.”