* * *
Chance sat in the bank’s parking lot making notes as he talked to Cash on the phone. “So Ben Morgan has a daughter.” An heir complicated matters, but he could file enough paperwork to keep the estate tied up until he could get the loan called. Morgan had been desperate so there was a balloon payment—due and owing on a date certain. “Do you have a name?”
“Cassidy. I’ve put a tracer on her. Oh, and speaking of, I have the information you wanted on that tag. Truck belongs to a guy named Baxter Thomas.”
A memory nudged him again. “Where do I know that name from?”
“Ya got me, Chance. Want me to run his financials?”
“No. Just do a quick Google search. See what comes up.” He drummed his fingers on the leather-clad steering wheel as he listened to clicking keys through the cell phone.
His brother’s low whistle caught his attention. “Now that’s interesting. Baxter Thomas is also Boots Thomas.”
“The rodeo clown?” They weren’t called that anymore—now they were called bullfighters, which was more appropriate to what they did inside the arena. Boots Thomas was a legend and anyone who’d ever traveled the rodeo circuit knew his name.
“That’s the one. And according to this article, he and Ben Morgan were partners in a rodeo stock company.” Cash whistled again. “And the plot thickens. Cassidy Morgan was a champion cowgirl back in the day, but she quit after winning the Denver Stock Show ten years ago. That’s the year you and Cord won the team roping up there.”
“Well, damn.” Had he met her on the rodeo circuit? He couldn’t put a face with the name so probably not. His rodeo career pretty much ended after that night. He graduated from college that spring and started law school soon after. He didn’t have time to chase steers or cowgirls.
“Chance? Are you listening?”
He wasn’t. “What?”
“There’s a memorial service for Morgan day after tomorrow at the Pleasant Hills Funeral Home. As near as I can figure, it’s a cremation. I suppose it’d be really uncool to serve her with the papers at the service.”
“Ya think? Jeez, Cash, you’ve been hanging around the old man too long. What time is the memorial?”
“Ten in the morning. Why? You aren’t thinking about actually showing up, are you?”
He didn’t examine his motives very closely as he answered. “It might be a good idea to go. Just to get a feel for things.” Business. This was just business. But he could do business without being a jerk—even if his father wanted to steal a ranch out from under his enemy’s grieving daughter. He didn’t believe in coincidences, but the odds of his mystery girl being Cassidy Morgan just kept getting better.
Armed with the information he needed, Chance started his car and headed home. He had plenty of time to get the legal papers filed. First, he wanted a shower and a change of clothes because he felt slimy all of a sudden. Like a royal SOB. He had plenty of time to get the legal papers filed.
He was about to act the world’s biggest bully, all under the orders of the bastard who sired him. At a stoplight, he glanced at his reflection in the rearview mirror. “You are a complete slimeball, you know that, right?” He didn’t blink at the accusation. He always told the truth, at least to himself.
Lost in thought, the light turned green, but he didn’t notice until someone honked. He waved a hand hoping the car behind saw the gesture as an apology, and wondered why the hell that mattered. He was a Barron. If he wanted to sit through a whole light, he would. He accelerated through the intersection and put his thoughts on hold until he arrived at his condo. Thinking about stealing the ranch from Cassidy Morgan would only make things worse. He barked a wry laugh. As if. He wasn’t sure how they could get any worse.