Lone Star Courtship. Mae Nunn

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      She glanced over her shoulder at the visitor and tried to ignore the tingling in her fingers as she rounded the flatbed trailer piled six feet high with tons of Sheetrock. Guy answered her call on the second ring.

      “What’s up, kiddo?”

      She ducked into the truck’s shadow for cover and privacy.

      “What’s up is there’s a lawyer here to see you and it seems he came all the way from London,” she snapped at her brother.

      “Oh, he must be the rep from Westbrook Partners.”

      “You knew this guy was coming? Why didn’t you warn me?” With the first question her temples began to throb. With the second her voice crescendoed to a squeak.

      “Easy, girl! You’ll shatter a windshield.” His chuckle buzzed in her ear.

      “Don’t you dare make jokes. Just answer my questions.” She squeezed her cell phone, wishing she could do the same to his neck. It was so like him to test her with a surprise.

      “Of course I knew he would be coming eventually but not for another month at least, so I hadn’t thought to warn you about him. What does he want?” His calm and lack of excitement was the right medicine to slow her heart from the racing that had begun.

      “He says he’s supposed to go over our expansion plan.”

      “Well, cooperate with him. Let the man have what he needs and then he’ll leave.”

      “Guy, he’s a lawyer. We can’t trust him with that kind of information.”

      “Casey, you can’t let our experience in court make you bitter for the rest of your life.”

      “But that Nashville lowlife faked his injuries in our store and those lawyers not only went along with the deception, they fought tooth and nail to get that huge settlement.”

      “Hon, lawyers are supposed to trust their clients and they don’t get paid if they don’t win.”

      How her brother could be so forgiving was a mystery. He’d suffered the most during the dragged out proceedings of the personal injury claim. But he’d given his anger to God and forgiven the people who’d made false claims. Today, he was happily married and about to adopt his wife’s precious little son.

      “So you’ve told me a hundred times,” she continued, “but I’m not ready to offer wholesale absolution. In my book the entire legal community is guilty of being money hungry until proven otherwise.”

      “Well, reserve judgment and give this fellow the benefit of the doubt, Warden. Westbrook Partners is the most respected law firm in England. Their influence on the investor could make or break our deal.”

      “Okay, okay, I hear you. I won’t let the family down.”

      “Hey, Casey?”

      “Yes, Guy?”

      “The last thing any of us worries about is you letting the family down. Dad hired you to replace me because you’ve trained for the opportunity and everybody knows you’ve earned it, because you keep reminding us. Call me tomorrow.”

      “I will. Thanks, bro.”

      “Now go leave your mark on Hearth and Home.”

      She closed her cell phone and smiled. Guy’s reminder of her number-one personal goal was just the thought to get her through the afternoon.

      “Yeah, I hear you and I’ll do my best to follow your advice, but I’m keeping a close eye on this limey legal eagle, just in case.”

      Barrett’s clothes were sticking to his skin. Even though he’d shed his jacket and tie and rolled up his sleeves, he’d still perspired through his undershirt. His trousers were streaked with whitish dust and his button-down looked and smelled as though he’d worn it to shear sheep.

      He was hot, he was uncomfortable and he was beginning to feel the effects of two sleepless nights and jet lag. Add the unaccustomed seasoning of his gluttonous lunch and he was closing in on a sensory meltdown. Still, as much as he wanted to check into the famed Galvez Hotel, take a cool shower and fall across a king-size mattress, he wanted to make progress on this assignment more. Once he had details and a starting point, he could begin organizing his thoughts. He would treat the exercise like the writing of a graduate school research paper. The kind of work he loved. And the reward would be returning to London with a mission successfully accomplished.

      Finally.

      But right now he had to take his sticky, rumpled self to, of all unappealing places, a construction trailer to observe a woman in dirty work boots giving orders to her hired help. Two hours earlier she’d excused herself and left him in the company of her man Cooper for a tour of the site. While it had been an enlightening use of his time, Barrett’s gut told him the gangly old guy was a decoy. In fact, he had the distinct feeling the aging foreman was stalling for his employer. As he aimed disgusting spittle into a paper cup, Cooper was forthcoming enough on matters related to construction but questions beyond that were deflected with shrugs and feigned ignorance. The old boy was about as ignorant as a Scotland Yard detective. Years of Oxford-trained cross-examination skills were essentially wasted on this Cooper fellow.

      At the end of the tour Barrett was given directions to the meeting place. He parked his luxury sedan alongside several ostentatious pickup trucks and entered a building that was nicely, if temporarily, constructed.

      A blast of cool, dry air greeted him as he stepped inside. Barrett noted the professional decor of the interior, dimly and comfortably lit in contrast to the glaring afternoon sun. For a moment he battled the desire to locate and stand beneath the air-conditioning vent directing the chilly breeze down the neck of his unbuttoned dress shirt.

      “Good afternoon, Mr. Westbrook.”

      A smiling creature crossed the room.

      “I’m Casey’s personal assistant, Savannah, and I’ve been warned about your injuries so I won’t offer to shake hands. May I at least get you some tea?”

      “That would be lovely. Yes, please. And do call me Barrett.”

      “I’ll just be a moment, Barrett. There’s a powder room through there if you’d like to freshen up.”

      The curvy brunette in jeans and sneakers gave him a cheeky smile, made a tick mark on the clipboard she carried and turned to leave.

      He seized the opportunity to duck into the small room where he washed his battered hands and splashed cool water on his face. As he stood before a large decorative mirror, he reviewed the day’s damage. Dark smudges beneath his eyes, hair askew, clothes limp and wrinkled. He looked as disheveled as he felt. A strong cup of Earl Grey with lemon would help him endure the afternoon. He considered going out to the car for his jacket and tie, but hadn’t the energy.

      “When in Rome,” he reminded himself of his best friend Sig’s advice to blend in rather than stand out. So far everybody he’d encountered was in laborer’s attire so there was no need to drag back on the wool jacket that had been so appropriate twenty-four hours ago in fog-dampened London.

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