Sherryl Woods - After Tex

“According to Tex’s will, you are officially Tess’s legal guardian.”

“No,” Megan whispered, stunned not only by the concept, but by the weight of the responsibility. She tried to imagine taking a kid back to New York with her, fitting her into a life already stretched to the limits. Her imagination, always vivid, failed miserably. “There has to be another way. Mrs. Gomez….”

“Not quite,” Jake said. “You can’t just dump Tess with Mrs. Gomez and take off.”

“Why the hell can’t I?” she all but shouted as panic flooded through her.

“Because Tex has spelled it all out in his will.”

His intimate familiarity with the details of Tex’s wishes stirred suspicion. “How do you know so much about Tex’s will?” Megan asked, her gaze narrowed.

“Because I’m the one who drew it up. Believe me, it’s airtight.”

Megan wondered just how many shocks her heart could take. “You’re a lawyer?”

“A damned good one, if I do say so myself. You renege on the terms that Tex has spelled out and the ranch is up for grabs.” Jake’s expression turned triumphant. “In other words, it’ll be all but mine, Megan, and there won’t be a damned thing you can do to stop it.”

For my father

As strong-willed as Tex and every bit as great an

influence on my life. I’ll miss your wit,

your generosity, your tomatoes

and our Beanie quests.

October 23, 1917—August 28, 1998

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Megan O’Rourke swept through the elegant marble and glass lobby of the prestigious Manhattan skyscraper, acknowledging a half-dozen greetings that followed in her wake.

“Hey, Megan.”

“Good morning, Miss O’Rourke.”

“Miss O’Rourke.”

“Hi ya, sweetheart.”

This last from the newspaper vendor, who also handed over a copy of the latest issue of her competitor’s glossy life-style magazine.

“Nothing you haven’t covered and done better,” he assured her with a wink.

“Thanks, Billy. I hope the day never comes when you tell me she’s beat me on something.”

“Won’t happen,” he said with confidence. “That staff of yours doesn’t miss a trick.”

Megan knew that because her staff was every bit as eager and ambitious as she was, every bit as tenacious and determined to take Megan’s World to the top, right along with the weekly TV show that had launched just weeks ago. The people she’d hired were young and savvy, quick to spot trends, sometimes just as quick to start them, she acknowledged as she got onto the elevator.

Not until the doors had whooshed closed did she pinch herself, a daily ritual that had started with her meteoric rise in publishing. She still couldn’t believe she was right on the brink of becoming a phenomenon as successful and renowned as Martha Stewart, dabbling in a whole slew of media pies, from magazines to books to television, her finger on the pulse of American culture.

Pretty impressive for a small-town girl from Wyoming who’d grown up on a ranch with a grandfather who was about as sophisticated as flannel—shirts, not designer sheets. Tex O’Rourke wasn’t into trends or styles or much of anything except land and cattle and making money. If Megan ever saw another cow again it would be way too soon.

Still, as Tex liked to remind her, she owed a lot to those cows she hated so much. They’d enabled her to go off to New York at twenty-one with money in her pocket. She’d been able to rent an apartment where she didn’t have to fear for her life every time she walked out the door.

After she’d served a suitable apprenticeship on three other magazines, starting in the lowliest of capacities, those blasted cows had allowed her to buy a faltering bimonthly publication, rename it and, in two short years, turn it into must-have reading from New York to Los Angeles. Even the people who set the trends read it, just in case she’d gotten the jump on them. Her readership demographics were an advertiser’s dream. These were the people who spent money—a lot of it—to stay one step ahead of the Joneses.

But if Tex’s money had given her a boot up, she knew it was her own drive and dedication and vision that had accomplished the impossible. Megan’s World was on financially stable ground now all on its own. Her first book—a hefty tome on entertaining—had been a bestseller. The second—on turning flea market bargains into treasured heirlooms—was flying off shelves at an even faster pace.

Six months ago she had started a local cable TV show in Manhattan, used that to assemble sample tapes, and just weeks ago had taken the program into national syndication. She was the media world’s latest hot property. Her demanding schedule was packed with talk show appearances and newspaper interviews. Ironically, that ability to crowd every hour with work was another lesson learned from the inexhaustible Tex, even if he didn’t approve of the way in which she’d put it to use.

Life was good. Life was very, very good. Alone in the elevator, she pinched herself again just to make sure it was real and not one of those summertime daydreams she used to have on the rare occasions when Tex had allowed her to laze around down by the creek during breaks from school.

When the elevator opened on the thirty-second floor, Megan stepped off into chaos. The rapid expansion of her media interests had jammed the offices, but no one had the time to steal away to look at new space. Her Realtor was at her wit’s end.

“Jasmine called again,” her executive assistant said, as if to reiterate that fact as he trailed her into her office. “The penthouse floor over on Madison is going today unless you get your tail over there to put in a higher bid.”

“Can I fit it in?”

“No.”

“Can you?”

“No, not unless you clone me.”

Megan stared, intrigued by the idea. “Can I do that?”

“They did it on Guiding Light, but as a practical matter, I’d say no,” Todd Winston said.

Todd—with his all-American face and biceps to die for—had been an aspiring actor until Megan had gotten her hooks into him when he’d taken a temp job between acting roles. She’d turned him into an executive assistant, the ultimate Yuppie with his neatly trimmed brown hair, oxford cloth, button-down shirts and trendy glasses that couldn’t hide mysterious eyes the gray-green color of sage. She had a hunch he’d taken the job as an acting assignment and chosen his wardrobe—and the glasses—accordingly. She knew for a fact he could see better than she could, and her vision was twenty-twenty.

He still taped at least three daytime dramas at home every weekday and fast-forwarded through them in some sort of bizarre soap ritual every weekend. He claimed the women in his life loved it, and if it satisfied some deep-seated need in him and kept him working for her, Megan wasn’t about to complain. Nor was she going to voice any disapproval of his tendency to discuss the story lines as if talking about old and dear friends. She had offered sympathy on more than one occasion only to discover that the death in question had been scripted and filmed in a studio on the west side of Manhattan.

“What do I tell Jasmine?” Todd asked.