Dixie Browning - Texas Millionaire

“Daddy? I’m in a place out in Texas called Odessa. It’s not too far from Royal, so I guess I’ll be getting in late this afternoon. Are you and Mama going to be home for a while? I worry about you when you’re on the road.”

“We’re heading out for Nashville come morning. I’ve got a big craft show this weekend, and the Possums are going to make a demo.”

“Oh. Well, call me when you know where you’ll be staying, all right? I gave Mama Aunt Manie’s number. And remember to take your pills with you, and don’t forget to walk at least a mile a day. I know it’ll be hot, but if you set out first thing in the morning—I know, I love you, too, Daddy. You be sure and go with Mama to those clubs, y’hear? You know what kind of people hang out in those places.”

Callie didn’t even know herself, not firsthand, but she’d heard things and read things, and her mama wasn’t exactly famous for her common sense. She had to trust her father to look after them both, which didn’t give her a whole lot of confidence, but she didn’t know what else to do. They were both in their middle fifties, but neither of them had a lick of common sense.

Had she remembered to bring Grandpop’s old photo albums?

She had. They were packed with the tube of Moravian cookies and the Moravian sugar cake, which was squashed and probably starting to mold, but it had seemed like a good idea at the time. Reminders of home, of childhood. It couldn’t hurt.

Lordy, she was tired. She’d never driven any farther than Raleigh, and now here she was, striking out across the country like a pioneer. Not that the interstate was any wagon trail. Not that her little red car was any covered wagon, either, but all the same, she felt proud of herself for setting out to rescue an elderly relative in need.

The Riley women—at least those who’d been born Rileys—might be short on looks and weird on names, but according to Grandpop, they had never lacked for gumption when something needed doing.

And Callie had convinced herself that Manie needed rescuing. She had the house all ready. She had taken her time looking for a new job after Doc retired, knowing she’d be heading west for a week or so, but as soon as they were back and settled in, she’d set out and find something that suited her.

Hank was tired when he got back from Midland. The unscheduled trip to his corporate headquarters, as it turned out, had been timely. He had an outstanding board of directors, but as Badge One, he occasionally found it necessary to question what he considered a risky move. Nine times out of ten, he was proved right. The tenth time served to keep him humble.

Greg Hunt was standing by the massive fireplace under the life-size portrait of old Tex Langley when Hank walked in. There was a private entrance to the second floor, but it was seldom used. The two men met in the middle of the room.

“Got a minute?”

“Sure, come on upstairs.” A close friend, Greg also served as his personal attorney, but Hank had a feeling this was about something entirely different. “You mentioned a situation. What’s up?” He led the way toward the broad staircase. There was an elevator, but like the private entrance, it was seldom used.

“I’d better fill you in on the background first, then we can take it from there.”

Hank poured his friend a drink, lit his own cigar and settled in to listen. He’d learned a long time ago that a moment of distraction during a briefing could spell disaster down the road.

“You remember my mentioning a woman named Anna?”

“Real looker? You had something pretty heavy going with her a while back? Family’s European and big on rules?”

“Yeah, well I forgot to mention her family name. She’s Anna von Oberland, of the Osterhaus von Oberlands. Crowned heads of a small European country. They’re pretty big on arranged marriages.”

“The hell you say. You’re marrying into royalty? ” Hank stumped out his cigar and leaned forward.

“If it were that easy, there wouldn’t be a problem. They’ve got her in exile. I’m not even sure how she managed to get a call through, but thank God she did.”

Hank waited. Greg was a lawyer. The information would emerge in the proper form, at the proper time.

“You’ve heard of Ivan the Terrible?”

Hank nodded. Greg scowled. “From what I hear, this guy who’s determined to marry her is a dead ringer. Prince Ivan Striksky of Asterland, who’s interested in expanding his holdings any way he can. Marrying Anna is easier and cheaper than a full-fledged invasion. Did I mention she has a son? She’s also the guardian of her late sister’s twins, which is probably going to mean a separate mission as I understand they’re being held in another location. Getting all four of them out of the country is going to take some tricky maneuvering and a whole lot of luck.”

“Count me in.”

Greg drained his glass, sighed and leaned back in his chair.

“I already have. I’ll get back to you after I talk to the others.”

For a long time after Greg left, Hank sat tilted back in his favorite chair, booted feet on the windowsill, staring out the window as another hot day drained from the colorless sky. Aside from the creak of his chair, the only sound to be heard was the quiet whisper of cold air feeding through the elaborate system of ductwork.

A situation?

Hell, it was a full-blown technodrama. Romeo and Juliet out of Indiana Jones.

At thirty-two, Greg Hunt was nearly eight years Hank’s junior. The man was brilliant, experienced, old enough and smart enough to avoid trouble of the female variety. This Anna of his must be something special. With three kids, yet.

He only hoped she was worth it. They’d left it with the understanding that Greg would consult with Sterling Churchill, Forrest Cunningham and Greg’s younger brother, Blake, who was into cloak-and-dagger stuff for the feds. All five men, Hank included, were ex-military. It was one of the things they had in common, besides being highly successful in their individual fields.

Hank had assured Greg of his support, both financial and otherwise. Talk of undertaking a mission brought back a rash of old memories. For the first time in years, Hank felt the familiar surge of excitement, as if he were back with the First Battalion of the 160th Special Ops, being briefed for another black SOF mission.

His career with the military had been the most rewarding period of his entire life. Never before or since had he felt so fully alive. He might even have made the service a permanent career except for the confluence of several events, including his father’s death, a crisis in the oil industry and the crash that had landed him in a Turkish hospital with a flock of surgeons squabbling over whether to do a chop job or try to patch up his mangled left leg.

The truth was, he missed it.

Hank had been eighteen when he’d enlisted. Reckless, resentful and still raw from his aborted marriage. Toting a redwood-size chip on his shoulder, he’d been determined to prove something—God knows what—to his old man.

Instead he’d proved something to himself. Now, some twenty-one years later, he knew who he was, what he was made of and what he was capable of achieving, either as a part of a team or on his own.

And none of it had anything to do with the fortune amassed by previous generations of Langleys.

Of the five people Hank trusted most in the world, four were ex-military and Cattleman’s Club members, like himself. The fifth person with whom he would trust his life was Romania Riley. Prim, scrappy Miss Manie, a woman who smelled like lavender and who could throw the fear of God into the club’s two-hundred-fifty-pound ex-marine chef with one look over the gold rim of her bifocals. The lady might drive him nuts on occasion, but she did it with the best intentions in the world.