The Swinging R Ranch: The Swinging R Ranch / Whose Line Is It Anyway?. Debbi Rawlins

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СКАЧАТЬ So he hadn’t.

      “How much longer before we get there?” Max asked the driver, and like the two other times he’d asked, the man sighed.

      “About fifteen minutes.” The man muttered something under his breath, then added, “Don’t they teach you boys how to tell time back east?”

      At the man’s insolence, Max gave a startled laugh. “Yeah. They even teach us manners. What’s your name?”

      “Herbert Hanson.” The man shook his head and from under the battered tan cowboy hat he wore, his black eyes met Max’s in the rearview mirror. “You must be one hardheaded son-of-a-gun.”

      Max snorted. “I’d ask how you arrived at that conclusion except I have a feeling that’s unnecessary.”

      “If they taught you manners, you weren’t listening too good. I introduced myself to you when I picked you up, son. But you were too busy shooting your mouth off about how you’d ordered a Lincoln Town Car.”

      Very few people could render Max speechless. Herbert Hanson’s brassy dressing-down had him dumbstruck.

      “I’m sure you’re used to getting what you want,” Hanson continued, “but out here in Bingo, folks are plumb grateful to get what they need. This old Caddy will get you there safe and sound,” he winked into the rearview mirror, taking some of the sting out of his words, “in the next thirteen minutes. You can count on that.”

      A dozen sarcastic remarks flew through Max’s head, including one that would make old Herbert think twice about getting a tip. But the man had hit a nerve and Max decided to leave it alone.

      He stared out the window in silence, wondering how long it would take to get his business wrapped up and get the hell out of Dodge. There was only one motel in town and he certainly wasn’t expecting much there. He’d had a difficult enough time getting picked up. There was no limo service in Bingo. Herbert was the motel manager’s uncle and he’d agreed to run Max around to supplement his retirement income.

      A good reason not to tick off the old guy, or Max could end up without wheels. And scorpion territory was not the place to be hotfooting it around.

      Of course he could always stay at the Swinging R Ranch. After all, he owned the place. The thought made him cringe, and he had to remind himself that brothels were legal here in certain parts of Nevada. Hell, it probably boosted the local economy, supplied jobs, kept women off welfare, provided college tuition.

      He shoved a hand through his hair. None of this reasoning made him feel better. He’d never been forced to evaluate his position on prostitution, legal or not, and he sure as hell didn’t want to do it now. Not when he was almost broke. Still, the idea that a woman ever had to make a living on her back made him squirm. Great time for him to develop a conscience.

      On the near horizon, the flat dusty terrain gave way to a handful of buildings. He glanced at his watch. That had to be Bingo. Taylor had warned him the town was small, but he’d figured a population of nine-hundred-and-two required more than a ghost town.

      From behind his dark glasses, he squinted at the sign coming up on the right. It said, Welcome To Bingo, and below it, Population nine-hundred-and-two. Except the two was crossed out and five was etched in.

      “What do you people do? Count cows and horses?” Max asked.

      Herbert glanced at the sign just as they drove past it. “Nope. The Hoover boys left for college this fall and we don’t expect they’ll be back. But Alma Hopkins just had triplets. Six months ago Louise Jenks had only one, but we suspect there’s another bun in her oven.”

      Max stared at the back of the man’s head. He could see enough of his somber profile to see that the guy was serious. Max slumped back in his seat. This was definitely not his scene. The sooner he figured out how much money the Swinging R could make him and got out of here, the better.

      “I changed my mind about going straight to the motel. Let’s swing by Chester Southby’s office instead.”

      “We can do that,” Herbert said in that annoyingly lazy drawl of his. “But that ol’ boy is going to be fishing on a nice day like this, not sitting cooped up in his office.”

      “It’s Friday afternoon. Somebody has to be there.”

      “Why?”

      Max frowned. Valid question, he supposed. He himself never kept normal hours. He sighed. “Just drive.”

      “Happy to oblige, son. I get paid by the mile and I could sure use the money. I got me a big purchase in mind.”

      Herbert couldn’t be a day under sixty-five, probably closer to seventy, and Max had to admit he was curious about what the man was so hot to get his hands on. Probably a new car. In fact, eyeing the worn vinyl upholstery, Max hoped that was it. But he wasn’t about to ask. So far the old guy hadn’t pried into Max’s business here in Bingo and he wanted to keep it that way.

      That he was the new owner of a bordello had nothing to do with his desire for anonymity, he told himself. It wasn’t as though he was ashamed. He just liked his privacy, that’s all.

      “Yup, just what I thought.” Herbert slowed down and pointed to an ancient building that leaned slightly to the left. “See that sign on the door? It means he won’t be back for another couple of days.”

      Max squinted at the sheet of white paper tacked to the red door. “It looks like a giant smiley face.”

      “That’s right. Getting away from his wife for two days makes Chester real happy. You want we should head back for the motel?”

      Max let out an exasperated sigh. The last thing he needed was to have to hang around for an extra day. He frowned suddenly. “Wait a minute. You said head back to the motel? We already passed it?”

      “Yup. Four blocks behind you on the right.”

      Max slowly turned around. Was he kidding? The entire town was only three blocks long. At least by normal city standards. Four only if you counted the five-car parking lot adjoining Edna’s Edibles.

      “It’s got that dang purple roof. You can’t miss it.”

      Not even with his eyes closed. Max shook his head at the ill-shaped monstrosity that hovered near the other side of town. Several add-ons in varying shades and types of wood sent the building sprawling into the desert. It wasn’t very big. Just weird. “I’ve changed my mind. Take me to the Swinging R Ranch.”

      Herbert slammed on the brakes. Good thing they’d been crawling. Twisted in his seat as he was, Max’s seat belt could have done some serious damage otherwise.

      “You wanna go where?” Herbert turned around to give Max a steely-eyed glare. The old man had done a lousy job of shaving and sunlight glinted off missed spots of gray beard. One side of his mouth drooped, probably from too many years of pipe-smoking. “What in the hell for?”

      “What do you think?”

      “It better not be for what I’m thinking.”

      Max held onto his temper. No way was he going to get in a scuffle with this crazy old coot. Then he stopped, frowned. “Wait a minute. What are you thinking?”

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