Linda Goodnight - Lone Star Bachelor

Dawson was a calm, introspective guy who counseled family and friends with a gentle God-directed wisdom. Dawson was, in a word, sensitive, and noticed nuances and undercurrents in relationships that Sawyer invariably missed.

Sawyer was—Well, he was different. He’d rather make people smile.

“I had a visitor this morning.”

“Yeah? Who?” Dawson confiscated the abandoned coffee cup and sipped.

“Private investigator.”

The unflappable brother gave a facial shrug. “Dad warned us.”

“He didn’t warn us about one thing.”

An eyebrow shot up. “Yeah? What’s that?”

“She’s a woman. A young, beautiful woman. Maybe thirty. About this tall.” Sawyer indicated shoulder height. “Wavy blond hair to her shoulders. Kind of soft and vulnerable looking. Not your stereotypical PI.”

Dawson saluted him with the cup. “You sure noticed a lot about her. You must be interested.”

He was, and he couldn’t figure out why. “You need to meet her before you form an opinion. Tough lady.”

“Hard-boiled?”

“Cold as a grape Popsicle in January.”

“Aw, poor Sawyer.” Dawson pulled a silly face. “The lady wasn’t charmed.”

“Not one bit.”

Dawson chuckled and toasted him with the cup. “Losing your touch, bro.”

The salesclerk—Nora—came around an end cap struggling to juggle several blister-wrapped packages with four wooden cabinet doors. Sawyer leaped forward to help. “Let me carry those. That’s too much for one lady.”

“Thank you.” She beamed up at him as he stood close enough to take charge of the wooden doors. “These are the new router designs. When I saw them, I thought of you.”

Sawyer sorted through the stack, sharing each one with his twin. “Nice. What do you think, Dawson? Can we use some of these?”

Dawson put his finger on one. “This would look great in the Carter house in the Huckleberry Addition.”

Nora, standing between the brothers, frowned up at Sawyer. “The Carter house? Is that a new one? I don’t remember seeing any invoices with that name.”

“It was a spec home until Charity sold it a couple of days ago. Now that we know the owner, we’ll be coordinating on the final details with the Carters.” Sawyer tapped the router design. “I agree with Dawson. This one’s great, but maybe we could take samples of all of them for showing? You never know a buyer’s taste.”

“Sure!” she said. “We can do that. I’ll go in the back and have the guys run some scrap boards for you to take along.”

Dawson reached in his pocket and removed two master keys. “Almost forgot. Can you make a couple of copies from these?”

Her smile broadened. “Be glad to. Should I mark them so you’ll know them apart?”

“Good idea.” He indicated the project name for each key. “Thanks, Nora.”

“Anytime.” She started off but turned back, gaze falling on Sawyer. “If you need anything else, let me know.”

She left them, and the brothers got down to business, going over their respective phone lists of supplies they needed for today’s work.

“I think you have another admirer,” Dawson said as they walked through the supply building.

“Who?” The private investigator flashed into Sawyer’s head. Jade—pretty name, but hard as the jewel she was named for.

“Nora, dimwit. You need an update on your navigation system?”

“The clerk? Nah, she’s a great employee. She helps everyone like that.”

Dawson tossed the empty cup into a trash can. “She’s never brought me samples to look at. Except that time she thought I was you.”

“Nothing unusual about that.” They were mirror twins. Dawson was right-handed and Sawyer a leftie. Each had an identical birthmark but on opposite shoulders. But many people still confused them because they were otherwise identical. They’d dealt with the twin confusion all their lives and had used it to their advantage many times, particularly during the ornery middle school years.

“Except she called me Sawyer and sort of gushed, getting all red like she did a minute ago.” Dawson pitter-pattered a hand over his heart.

“Give it a rest. After being grilled by the private investigator this morning, I’m not thinking about women.” None except the PI.

“That bad, huh?”

“You’ll get your turn. What I can’t figure out is why the focus is on me.”

“The photo was you.”

True. No matter how he combed his hair, the part fell naturally to the left. Dawson’s on the right. Otherwise, they’d never have figured out an identity. Weird that he didn’t recall when or where the photo was taken.

“Just because a picture of me was found on a vandalized site doesn’t make the discovery significant. Maybe the photo has nothing at all to do with the case.”

“Convince Dad of that.”

“Right,” Sawyer said. “Dad and one female Sherlock Holmes.”

* * *

The Red River Roost, a long, old-fashioned strip motel complete with a rooster perched in crowing posture above the flashing vacancy sign, looked a little tired but offered extended stays for a price that fit Jade’s expense budget. Dale Trentworth, owner of Paris Investigations, squeezed every penny and expected his employees to do the same.

Jade knew all about pinching pennies, and the River Roost, as the manager called the place, wasn’t too bad. Located in a residential area on the far side of Gabriel’s Crossing, the place should be quiet and restful, and that was all she required.

She pulled her Chevy into the spot in front of Unit Three and got out, peeling off her jacket as she approached her room. To say she was sweltering in this black suit would be a gross understatement. She was a cooked goose, a roasted duck, a rabbit on a spit baking in the Texas sun. Sweaty and sticky, though the day was young, she tossed the jacket over her elbow.

She knew better than to wear black this time of year, but she’d wanted to appear professional and in control. If she’d arrived at Sawyer Buchanon’s house in a dress and spiky heels, he might have turned on the charm and distracted her from her questions. Not that he hadn’t tried anyway. The man was a born flirt.

She had not been moved. Not one bit.

Well, perhaps a little, but she’d handled him and his charisma. Even if the picture of his too-handsome face kept flashing behind her eyes, she was proud of her cool, competent reaction.

Now that she’d established her professionalism and complete lack of interest in Mr. Playboy Buchanon, the black had to go.

A glance at her cell phone indicated plenty of time to change before her next appointment.

What she wouldn’t give to slip into comfortable jeans and a cool tank top, but first impressions mattered in this business. To be taken seriously, she had to work harder than a man. A glance in the mirror wasn’t required to remind her of how she looked. Petite. Fragile. An easy mark.

She was neither fragile nor easy, not anymore. But her size wasn’t likely to change, and unless she succumbed to plastic surgery. Neither was her baby-doll face.

Well, she was no baby doll. Sawyer Buchanon and his kind better understand that from the get-go.

She was tough and determined.

Fishing for her key, she glanced around, taking mental snapshots of her surroundings. Police work had taught her to be always on the alert, though Gabriel’s Crossing, Texas, was about as calm and peaceful a place as she could think of.

Yet someone had sabotaged the Buchanons’ work projects. Bad things happened in small towns, only on a lesser scale.

The small motel was sparsely populated this weekday morning. Beneath the awning in front of the office sat a battered green pickup truck with a riding lawn mower in the bed. From somewhere nearby, she smelled the clean, fresh aroma of cut grass.