Barbara McCauley - Texas Heat

“‘I, Jeremiah Tobias Stone,’” he began, “‘of Cactus Flat County, Texas, declare that this is my Will and revoke all prior wills and codicils...’” He droned on, “‘...and I name Jake Stone, my eldest son, as Executor of this Will...’”

Eyes narrowed, Myrna turned to Jake, clearly unhappy at J.T.’s choice of an executor. At the mention of her name, she turned back to Woodard.

“‘...to my spouse, Myrna Stone, I leave my home and its furnishings, plus the surrounding three acres.’”

Myrna’s mouth dropped open. Stone Creek was a total of one hundred thousand acres. “But—” She started to protest, but the lawyer moved on.

“‘...to my son Jake Stone I leave the sixty thousand acres that constitutes Stone Creek ranch, including any existing cattle and assets of that property...’”

Stone Creek Ranch. Jake felt his heart slam against his ribs. He had thought for sure Myrna would get the ranch that he’d run for his father for the past twelve years. Jessica took hold of Jake’s hand and squeezed. He knew she understood how important the ranch and Stone Creek were to him.

“But—” Myrna opened her mouth again.

“‘...to my son Jared Stone, I leave a parcel of fifteen thousand acres containing a closed-down oil well, plus any and all oil-drilling equipment on the property...’”

Jake looked at his brother. He sat stiff in his chair, his hand tightly clasped on the arm, staring straight ahead. The oil well. Jared’s oil well. Three years ago, J.T. had taken it away. Now, in his death, he was giving it back.

Myrna clamped her mouth shut. Her gray eyes glistened with anger, but she said nothing.

“‘...and to my daughter, Jessica Stone, I leave fifteen thousand acres that contain the remains of Makeshift, an abandoned town.’”

Stunned, Jessica sat there for a moment, then as she glanced from Jared to Jake, a brilliant smile spread across her face. Jake knew that Jessica had spent half her childhood in the abandoned town. It had been like a giant playhouse for her. What she would do with it now Jake hadn’t a clue, but he had no doubt she’d think of something. In fact, based on the look in her blue eyes, the wheels were already turning.

“What about my husband’s other assets?” Myrna asked expectantly.

Woodard shook his head. “J.T.’s accountant sent me the past three years of financial statements, Mrs. Stone. It seems that all of his cash and liquid assets were drained to remodel his private residence. There’s only a few thousand left, and as stipulated in the will, that money will be equally divided amongst you and his children.”

Jake watched Myrna’s face turn white at the lawyer’s unexpected news. The woman had spent the past ten years building and continuously remodeling a two-story, six-thousand-square-foot monument to herself, and now she had the nerve to sit here and look surprised because there was no more money. If he didn’t feel so damn ticked off about it, he might have actually laughed at the irony of it all.

A sour taste rose in Jake’s throat. It would hardly affect Myrna, anyway. She not only had money from her first husband, but her own father, Carlton Hewitt III, owned half of Houston and was busy trying to buy the rest, as well. What the hell was a few thousand more or less to her, in land or money? Her father had always given her everything she’d wanted. To himself, and to Jared and Jessica, it was the difference between losing Stone Creek or preserving their father’s legacy.

And that, above anything else, was what Jake intended to do.

“Well, then,” Myrna said crisply as she dropped her handkerchief into her purse and snapped it shut, “if that’s all, then—”

“I’m afraid it’s not, Mrs. Stone.” Everyone turned and looked at the lawyer. He appeared slightly uncomfortable. “There’s still one more bequest in the will.”

“To the tune of ten thousand acres, I believe,” Jake said thoughtfully.

Woodard nodded.

“J.T.’s entire family is sitting in this room,” Myrna said sharply. “Who else would my husband leave anything to?”

The lawyer glanced at the document and read, “‘To Emma Victoria Roberts Stone.’” He lifted his gaze as he stared at the Stone children. “J.T.’s nine-year-old daughter.”

No one moved. It seemed as if no one breathed. Her face rigid, Myrna gripped her black leather purse so tightly it creaked. “Mr. Woodard, J.T. and I were married for eleven years. Surely I’d know if he had...that is, if there was an indiscretion of that nature. There must be some mistake.”

“I realize what a shock this must be to you all, but your husband did, in fact, father a child, Mrs. Stone. While he was married to you.”

“A sister?” Jessica whispered, leaning forward in her seat. “We have a sister?”

“Yes, Miss Stone.”

Disbelieving, Jessica glanced at both her brothers, then back to the lawyer. “But...how?”

Jared looked at Jessica and raised a brow. “We’ll talk later.”

Jessica frowned at him. “What I mean is, why didn’t we know? How could he not tell us?”

Woodard adjusted his glasses. “It was only recently that your father himself found out. As of this time, I’m afraid our information on the child is extremely limited. We do know that she’s nine years old, and we believe she’s living in the South somewhere, but that’s about it. Your father hired a private investigator to find her, but unfortunately J.T. passed away before the man could locate the mother or the child. However—” the lawyer looked at Jake “—your father has requested in his will that Jake continue the search.”

Ignoring Myrna’s incredulous look, Jake stared straight ahead. An affair. His father had had an affair.

And I have a new kid sister.

“This is ridiculous.” Myrna’s voice was tight with anger. “Even if there is a child—and I certainly don’t believe there is—what difference does it make now? J.T. is gone. There’s absolutely no reason to look for her.”

Jessica put her hand on Jake’s arm. “Of course we’ll look for her. Won’t we, Jake?”

Jake looked down at his sister. “She’s a Stone, isn’t she?”

Jessica hugged him, knocking off his Stetson.

“Never a dull moment,” Jared said, shaking his head and smiling.

“You sure as hell can say that again,” Jake replied, returning his sister’s hug. “Welcome home, little brother.”

The town house was expensive. White wrought iron, beveled windows, shiny brass mailboxes. The taxi slowed, then pulled to a stop in front of a small brick security building nearly engulfed by a creeping vine with pink flowers. The guard behind the polished glass window glanced over his newspaper at the taxi and frowned slightly.

The driver turned to his passenger. “You want me to wait?”

That was a good question, Jake thought. He might be here thirty minutes or thirty seconds. Hell, the woman might not even open the door, in spite of the fact she knew he was coming. It had taken five months after J.T.’s death to track her down, and according to the private investigator, she’d been less than welcoming. Getting her to agree to this meeting had been about as easy as branding a loose steer.

“So how ‘bout it?” The cabbie grew impatient. “You want me to wait or not?”

Jake grabbed the small duffel bag on the floor beside him and shook his head. “I’ll call.”

The guard watched carefully now as Jake paid the fare. It wasn’t as if Jake didn’t understand the man’s concern. This section of Atlanta, Georgia, was much more accustomed to CEOs in tailored suits than a six-foot-four cowboy in a black Stetson and blue jeans.