Lip Service. Сьюзен Мэллери

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      He told himself it wouldn’t be like that anymore, but he knew he was lying. Whatever happened between them, the fire still burned. It was—

      Something moved in the shadows.

      He sat up and leaned forward, trying to figure out the shape and speed. A coyote, he thought, disgusted. Scavengers.

      Instinctively he reached behind the truck seat, but he hadn’t thought to bring a shotgun. Then he saw where the coyote was headed and realized it didn’t matter.

      The skinny predator moved with a confidence that spoke of experience or extreme hunger. It slipped through a break in the fencing. The hated chickens squawked and tried to get away, but they weren’t nearly as fast as the coyote and they were trapped by the fencing. The coyote used that to his advantage. He grabbed one, snapped its neck with a quick, violent shake and retreated, dinner hanging limply from his jaws.

      Mitch started the truck’s engine and headed back to the house. As he pulled up in front, he saw Arturo standing on the porch, shotgun in hand.

      “Did you see what he did?” the older man demanded. “I checked that fence line yesterday but it must have gotten damaged this morning. Damn coyotes are always prowling, always looking for a weak spot. I wish I’d gotten here sooner. I would have shot him.”

      Mitch hadn’t seen Arturo in nearly nine years but, except for a few gray hairs, his manager hadn’t changed much. He was still tall and barrel-chested, with a permanent squint as if the sun was always in his eyes. As a kid Mitch had loved watching old Westerns on TV. He’d thought Arturo was the Latin version of John Wayne—big, brave and able to beat the bad guys, despite any odds.

      “It’s good to see you, old man,” Mitch said.

      Arturo dropped the gun onto the bench by the front door and grabbed Mitch by the upper arms. “I’m glad you’re back. We missed you. Every night Fidela prayed for your safe return.”

      “She told me.”

      “She worried. We both worried.”

      There was love in the old man’s eyes. He had been there for Mitch far more than his own father had ever been. Arturo had taught him all he knew about life.

      Carefully, aware of his balance, he hugged the other man. Arturo squeezed him tightly, then slapped him on the back.

      “You look good. How do you feel?”

      “About what you’d expect.”

      “Fidela is going to fatten you up. Be prepared to eat. You know how she gets.”

      “Tell me we’re not having chicken,” Mitch grumbled, hating the birds.

      “We have plenty, even with the one that got away.”

      “The coyotes can take them all.”

      Arturo stepped back. “Why would you say that? They’re your chickens.”

      “I don’t want ’em. We run beef here. We always have. When did you sell out? Chickens? And organic beef? What’s next? Do we all go around saving the spotted owl and hugging trees?”

      Arturo frowned, then folded his arms across his big chest. “I told you what I wanted to do seven years ago. I explained everything and said to let me know if you didn’t want me to go ahead with the changes.”

      Which was probably true. “I didn’t read any of the reports,” Mitch admitted, wishing there was a casual way he could sit down and take the weight off his stump. It felt like it was on fire.

      “What about the bank statements?” Arturo asked, sounding more curious than pissed.

      “Once in a while.” He’d seen enough to know there was plenty of money. The ranch had grown even more profitable in the time he’d been away.

      “The cattle industry is changing,” Arturo said. “Consumers want things different these days. They worry that their beef isn’t safe. They don’t want the antibiotics. They want clean poultry that isn’t raised in cages. This way we avoid all those problems. Certified, organic beef means…”

      Arturo kept talking but Mitch wasn’t listening. A hundred years of tradition over in a heartbeat. Nothing was the way he thought it should be. Nothing was right.

      He headed for the door. Every step sent pain shooting up his thigh to his hip. His back throbbed.

      “You need to know about this,” Arturo told him.

      “You handle it.”

      “You’re the boss. This is all for you, Mitch. That’s why I did it. For you.”

      Mitch turned slowly. He was sure the old man meant it. That his intentions had been good. “I don’t want it,” Mitch said slowly. “Any of it. Not the chickens or the organic beef. I want things back the way they were.”

      What he meant was himself. He knew that. Arturo would know it, too. Nothing about his statement was subtle.

      He stepped into the house and stumbled when his prosthesis caught on the threshold. Arturo grabbed him to keep him from going down.

      Mitch shook off the help and walked as steadily as he could back to the room Fidela had converted into a bedroom. Once inside, he closed the door, then sat on the bed.

      His toes twitched, his ankle moved, his calf tensed. He could feel it. All of it. It was real, as was the pain…and the loss.

      Nothing was as it was supposed to be. Everything was screwed up and broken. Even him. Especially him.

      SKYE FINISHED rubbing down her horse, then walked back toward the house. For once, the sight of Glory’s Gate rising tall and proud against the blue Texas sky didn’t lighten her mood. She was battling too many emotions, most of them bad, to appreciate architecture or stately columns. Not when she was torn between the tingles still jolting her body. And shame.

      Once in the mudroom, she pulled off her boots and socks and slipped into a pair of sandals. A quick check of the clock told her that casual sex on the ground hadn’t put her too far behind schedule.

      There was a party that night. A couple hundred of Jed Titan’s closest friends would stop by for cocktails between six and eight. A dozen or so of the mighty who attended had been graced with an invitation for dinner, but the meal wasn’t her problem. He would take them out for that.

      Before then she had to make sure everything was in place. That the party would be perfect. Nothing less was allowed. Titans did things well or they didn’t do them at all.

      She walked into her downstairs office, the one she used to coordinate the social events that made Glory’s Gate sparkle five or six times a month. White dry-erase board covered two of the walls. A grid had been painted in place, allowing her to write in the details for each event. She could look at four different parties at the same time.

      Her desk was simple—a long, low surface with a computer and plenty of storage trays for files. She had a Rolodex with the name of every florist, caterer, musician and party planner in a two-hundred-mile radius.

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