Taking the Reins(74)

“You have no right.”

His father blustered and Red knew exactly where he was heading next. So he straightened and loomed over his father a few inches.

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll save you the time. You put me up on my first pony, taught me to ride, I’m where I am today because of you, blah blah blah.” For the first time in, well, ever, Red was finally ready to give his father what he deserved, straight to his face. The mere thought of the man coming close to Peyton gave him all the emotional ammo he needed for the final break. “Don’t come crawling to me again. Don’t call me for money because you were too drunk or too arrogant and lost it all in a game of chance. Don’t ask for a job reference, because the minute someone asks me about you, I’ll tell them the truth. Don’t step one foot on the M-Star ranch property, because I’ll have you arrested. And if I were you, I’d pack up and head out of town as soon as you can. I’ll even be generous and give you a two-week break before I go in and tell Mr. Hollins, the tack store owner, all about your multitude of other jobs and why you were fired from them.”

He waved a hand toward the door. “Now go hand in your two-week notice, and until you’ve got Marshall in your rearview mirror, don’t give me another thought.”

Red sidestepped his father—the only family he had, which was the single thought that kept him from swinging after the insult to Peyton—and walked out the door into the sun to wait for Bill.

“All set, Mr. Callah—I mean, Red. Did you find anything else you needed?” Bill walked up to stand next to him, plastic shopping bags in hand.

“No, nothing else I need in there.” Red slammed his hat back on his head and walked out to his rig. On the drive back to the ranch, though, a thought crept through his mind.

His father had been in town for weeks and he hadn’t known it. And the man needed money. Mac wasn’t above stealing, when it suited him. And stealing from his son, the son who he considered successful through luck alone, would likely suit his father to the ground.

His father had shown up before at ranches where he’d found work. But it was usually with grand fanfare, a big show, trying to give him no opportunity to escape. Never before had Mac snuck in like a thief in the night without making contact.

Thief in the night. Red snorted. Apt term. Red thought back to the old lock his father carried in his bag, the one he practiced picking. The proudest he’d ever seen his father was when Red had picked the lock in record time, beating even his own record. As a child, he’d thought the whole thing a game. As a teen, he saw the potential for disaster. As an adult, well . . .

If his father was snooping around his home or office, looking for money or another way of scoring fast and big, he’d be out of luck.

He resolved to have the locks to both his apartment and his office changed when he had five minutes. No, he’d make five minutes the minute they got back home. Though his father would have probably used some rudimentary lock-picking tools, he wasn’t taking any chances.

Just another reminder to keep from getting too far involved with Peyton. As if Red needed any other reasons. He had some seriously bad blood running through his veins. Damn his luck.

Red made a quick U-turn on the deserted road and headed back into town.

“Small detour on the way home, Bill. We’re heading over to the hardware store. I’ve got a few locks I’ve been meaning to reinforce.”





Chapter Sixteen


Peyton waited until she knew Bea would be in the kitchen. Her sister was like clockwork when it came to her eating. For someone the size of a twig, she could pack it away. Only not when anyone was watching.

Trace followed Peyton into the house, as silent as possible, and both slipped their boots off. When Peyton heard the vacuum upstairs, she knew that accounted for Emma. And the soft scraping of a fork over a plate in the kitchen signaled Bea’s location.

Peyton crept on shoeless feet until she could peer around the kitchen door. Bea stood at the sink, shoveling what looked like a leftover piece of the pie Emma had baked for dinner the night before into her mouth.

Not so prissy and girly now, huh? Peyton grinned. “Leave any for us?”

Bea shrieked and dropped the plate, the solid stoneware clanging into the sink. One hand flattened against her chest and she bent over as if catching her breath after a long sprint. “Oh Jesus, Peyton. Don’t do that.”

Trace walked in behind Peyton and peered into the sink. “Damn, did you clean the entire plate? Emma’s gonna kill you.”

Bea shoved at Trace’s shoulders. “Don’t comment on what a woman eats. It’s rude.”