Joanna Wayne - Cowboy Swagger

His voice was gruff and his tone edgy, an attempt, she suspected, to hide his emotions. Dylan was all man in every way that showed, but somewhere deep inside him, there must be some remnant of the boy who lost not only his mother to a brutal murder, but life as he knew it.

The clatter of voices outside rose to a crescendo. She joined Dylan at the window. A white truck was speeding down the road to the house.

“The return of Troy Ledger,” Dylan said.

Troy Ledger, not his father. That said a lot. His father might have gotten a get-out-of-jail-free card, but he obviously wasn’t getting a pass from Dylan. Maybe she had more in common with Dylan than she’d thought.

Surprising herself, she pulled out a business card. “If you need to talk, I’m available. You can call my photography studio or my cell number. Or you can stop by anytime. I live in the old Callister place. It’s the yellow house just past the Baptist church.”

“Your husband might not appreciate that.”

“What makes you think I’m married?”

“I saw you at the elementary school when I passed.”

“I was there to pick up my brother’s daughter, or rather to tell her I couldn’t pick her up and that she should ride the bus home.”

Their eyes met again as he took the card from her. His were tempestuous, yet mysteriously seductive. “I hope this works out for you,” she said.

“Yeah. Same for you. Be careful with the jerk who’s giving you a hard time.” He handed her the camera case and then walked her to the front door just as the back door swung open. “See you around.”

“Yeah, cowboy. See you around.”

She had a feeling he wouldn’t be looking her up. That was probably for the best, she told herself. He was far too complicated. She’d seen that in his intense, brandy-colored eyes. And she had complications and problems enough of her own.

Oddly, though, she found herself hoping that he’d call.

He kept his distance, remaining unnoticed from his position behind the woodshed and sheltered by the low branches of a spreading live oak tree. Lifting his binoculars to his eyes, he watched as Collette McGuire walked out of the house and squeezed through the mob of reporters who were all but wetting their pants over the arrival of what looked to be the infamous Troy Ledger.

The wind tousled her hair like a lover might, lifting and teasing the fiery red curls before letting them fall to her narrow shoulders. Collette McGuire was both beautiful and spunky. Neither altered the outcome, but they had changed the game, likely even prolonged it.

She was a woman who could tempt any red-blooded male, even one as scarred and damaged as he was.

Too bad she had to die.

Dylan dried the plate and put it away. The dishes were old, probably the same ones they’d eaten off of when he was a kid. Still, they were as unfamiliar to him as the man standing next to him.

Troy Ledger was tall and gaunt with slight bags under his tortured eyes and wrinkles that dug deep furrows across his brow. His nails were chewed down to his flesh, and a jagged scar ran along his right cheek and down to his breastbone. His forearms were muscled. He’d likely be a tough contender in a fight.

Fifty-five years old but he looked like a man who’d lived through hell. He acted only half alive, as if he’d been reduced to going through the motions, except that twice that afternoon he’d seemed to be in the grip of a mood so intense he could barely control it. One of those times, he’d clutched the glass he was holding so tightly that it shattered in his hand.

Dylan would have liked to ask what he was thinking at that moment, but his dad had set the rules of engagement from the moment he’d walked into the house. They’d shared a quick handshake and greeting, and then his dad had withdrawn so deeply into himself, Dylan might as well have been invisible.

They’d spoken briefly since then—about the steaks Dylan had grilled for their dinner, about the price of beef these days, about the weather. The closest they’d come to anything personal was when the formidable Troy Ledger had asked Dylan if he was married. He’d said no. His dad had only nodded. Who in hell knew what that meant?

His brothers had been right. Coming here was a mistake. But now that he was here, he’d stick it out at least a few more days. No reason to hurry off. No one was waiting for him anywhere.

“What are you going to do about the ranch?” Dylan asked when the dishes were all put away.

“Raise cattle, same as other ranchers.”

“Cattle cost money.”

He was pretty sure his dad didn’t have any. They were never rich, and the little Troy had would have been swallowed up by lawyers’ fees and taxes on the ranch.

Dylan had learned that much from his father’s attorney who’d handled the estate—the estate consisting of the ranch and this old house. The attorney had contacted Dylan and his brothers when their father’s release had become imminent and suggested they welcome him home. Dylan had been the only one who’d accepted the proposal. At his father’s request, the attorney had mailed Dylan a key to the house.

The family of Dylan’s mother was in much better financial shape. His and his brothers’ inheritance from their grandparents had gone into a trust fund that had put them all through college.

Uncle Phil had been upset when Dylan decided to go into the army after graduation instead of joining his uncle’s extremely successful advertising firm. Dylan had wanted to do something for his country and he’d needed adventure. The army had offered both.

Troy stuffed his hands in the back pockets of his jeans. “Able Drake’s backing me for a start-up herd.”

“Do I know him?”

“Not likely. Lives up in Dallas now, but he’s from these parts.”

Dylan couldn’t help but wonder if Able was someone Troy had met in prison. As far as he knew, no one on his mother’s side of the family had ever mentioned the man, but then they hadn’t even spoken his father’s name in years. They were all convinced he’d killed their beloved Helene.

Dylan had acted as if he believed it, too. But he hadn’t. The father who lived in his dreams and imagination could never have killed his mother.

“Is Able the one who readied the house for you?” Dylan asked.

“He had it done.” His father looked around as if noticing the place for the first time. “Not much of a house, is it?”

“Structure’s okay,” Dylan said. It was the only positive thing he could think of.

“Used to look better,” his dad said. “Back when …” He stopped midsentence, looking as if pain was digging into his ruddy flesh like sharp nails.

“Yeah,” Dylan agreed. “It used to be better.”

His dad rubbed the old scar. “I’m beat. Think I’ll head on off to bed.”

And avoid any more feeble attempts at conversation with the son he hadn’t seen since the day he’d been convicted. All the boys had been there that day to say goodbye, against their grandparents’ will.

Dylan tried to muster up a bit of resentment for his father’s eagerness to escape his company. It didn’t come. Truth was, he wasn’t up to talking tonight, either. The chasm that separated them after years of zero communication was too deep and wide to be bridged by a steak and a few attempts at meaningless small talk.

“I’ll take the back bedroom,” his dad said.

Not the big bedroom he’d shared with Dylan’s mom, though Dylan had spotted him standing at that door earlier, staring into the room, his muscles strained and his expression as pained as if he’d been kicked in the gut by an angry bull.