Cowgirls Don't Cry(4)

                Chance resisted the urge to scrub at his forehead. The old man’s temper and propensity for firing people kept Chance hip deep in fixing the messes made by his father. In fact, he cleaned up all the predicaments his family got embroiled in. It was his duty, according to Cyrus Barron, and part of the price to pay for being a member of one of Oklahoma’s richest and most powerful families. The perks of being a Barron were many, so Chance paid the dues.

                “I have a seat on the first flight out in the morning. Any clue about the hornet’s nest we’re walking into?”

                “Trouble with a capital T. The old man’s worn a path in the carpet from all his pacing. He keeps muttering something about ‘that old bastard thinks he can outsmart me by dying’ with a lot more choice cuss words sprinkled liberally throughout. He had a map spread out on the conference table, so I have the feeling he’s in acquisition mode and isn’t going to take no for an answer.”

                “So what else is new?” The rhetorical nature of the question was lost on Cord. Chance resisted the urge to hang up on his brother as he continued to watch the girl. He liked her looks, but the playboy side of his brain told him to run. The abiding sorrow in her eyes boded nothing but trouble—and entanglements. With his father on the warpath, he couldn’t afford either one. He tuned back in to his brother’s voice.

                “It’s not enough that Clay is a senator. The old man is bugging Chase to run for governor next year.”

                This was a conversation he didn’t want a stranger to overhear. He turned his back and stepped a few feet away. “Chase? In politics? Oh hell, no. Trouble follows him like an ambulance-chasing lawyer. The old man must be losing his grip on reality.”

                “Hey, at least he’s not after you or me, bro.”

                Chance snorted. “I had that conversation with the old man when I was twelve.”

                Cord laughed again, harder this time. “Yeah, I remember that. You couldn’t sit a saddle for almost a week after he finished tanning your hide with that switch. And he got back at you by making you go to law school.”

                Chance turned around just in time to see his plans evaporate behind the elevator doors. He laughed as he saw the woman lean over to continue watching him until the doors closed. His intellect remained curious about her. His body had a more basic interest involving naked skin and sheets. He could still smell the scent of her perfume, or shampoo or simply her. Almonds, orange and a hint of cinnamon—the fragrance as distinctive as the woman. With a frustrated snarl, he focused on his brother’s voice yammering in his ear.

                “The old man is livid, Chance. I’ve never seen him like this. Not even when Tammy ran off with the foreman. I’m worried he’s actually going to stroke out.”

                Chance rolled his eyes. Tammy was wife number six. Or seven. Half his father’s age and built like Dolly Parton, she’d turned her charms on the ranch foreman and convinced him to take off with her. The Barrons owned the two major papers in Oklahoma so she’d threatened to go to the tabloids with fabricated family secrets. She would sink to that level to cause a scandal. As the family lawyer, Chance negotiated a monetary settlement to avoid the nuisance and filed the divorce papers while the ink was still wet on her signature.

                “So what the hell’s going on, Cord? You just cost me a roll in the hay. There’d better be a damn good reason for the old man’s fit.”

                “Does the name Ben Morgan mean anything to you?”

                Chance rifled through his memory. “Vaguely. Old rodeo cowboy, right?”