Cowboy in a Kilt

One “It always rains the day a good man dies.” Raleigh Beaumont felt a smile tug the corner of his mouth, because the weather was bone dry. They’d been in a drought for the past few weeks. “Mama used to say that. She’d also say not to speak ill of the dead.” “Your daddy was probably the only thing your mama and I really disagreed on.” Charlotte Vasquez came to lean beside him on the split-rail fence bordering the north pasture, propping one booted foot up as they both looked out over the rolling hills of the East Texas ranch that had been in his family for generations. “Luther Beaumont was a bastard, and we both know it.” “You’re not wrong.” One corner of his mouth quirking, Raleigh glanced down at the tiny Latina woman, who barely came to the top of his shoulder. When Raleigh’s mama, Lily, had been diagnosed with stage-four cancer, it had been Charlotte who’d taken a leave of absence from her job as a high-powered executive and moved in to care for her—and by extension, Raleigh. His daddy hadn’t stuck around to watch Lily’s decline as illness stole her vitality and vivaciousness, leaving her only a shell of the woman she’d once been. Luther had thrown himself into keeping the ranch running smoothly. At the time, Raleigh had convinced himself his father was only outrunning the inevitable grief. That he was protecting the legacy he’d married into. He’d learned better since. “I mean, come on,” Charlotte continued. “He moves that little hussy—” Said hussy being Twila, Luther’s second wife, who was a bare seven years older than Raleigh himself. “—into the house when your mama’s barely been six months in the ground? She only married him for his money, and he married her for the trophy.” Her tone rang with bitter judgment, though it had been nearly fifteen years. Raleigh stretched an arm across her shoulders, tugging her in for a hug. In the wake of Lily’s death, Charlotte had convinced Luther to let her stay on as housekeeper, so she’d be around as a mother-figure to Raleigh because, God knew, Twila didn’t have a maternal bone in her body. Back then, he hadn’t understood what she’d given up for him, but at sixteen, that link to the mother he hadn’t wanted to forget had saved Raleigh. And though he was well grown now, somehow, Charlotte had never left. He’d once asked her why, and she’d told him that losing his mother like that had shown her there were far more important things in life than breaking her back to climb a corporate ladder, and until she found another of them, she was staying planted near him. “You didn’t have to be here today. I’m a big boy. I can handle the reading of the will.” She squeezed him back, her head only coming to his shoulder. “Of course, I did. You need somebody here who’s an ally.” They both turned to see a black Ford F-150 pulling up in the circular drive in front of the house. “Looks like you weren’t the only one with that idea,” Raleigh murmured. A familiar lanky figure climbed out of the truck and headed in their direction. Ezekiel Shaw was one of Raleigh’s oldest and best friends. The one who’d as often been the instigator of mischief as the one to help him out of it. Charlotte shot him a knowing smile. “Hey, Trouble.” Zeke grinned and pulled her in for a hug of his own. “Hey, Charlotte. When you gonna run away from this place and marry me?” “I can’t marry you. Who’d be around to keep this one on the straight and narrow once he takes over the ranch?” He clutched his chest in dramatic fashion. “Breakin’ my heart, woman.” “Somehow, I think you’ll survive.” But a twinkle in her rich chocolate eyes softened the dry retort. Turning to Raleigh, Zeke hauled him in for a back-thumping hug. “You holding up?” “Ready to get this show on the road. What’re you doing out here?” Zeke pulled a flask out of his pocket and offered it. “Figured I’d be around for moral support, just in case.” Raleigh waved away what he knew would be bourbon. “You think things won’t go well with the reading of the will?” He shrugged. “Got no reason to think one way or the other. I just know you and Twila don’t exactly get on.” “She’ll be out of my life soon enough.” And thank God for it. Raleigh was itching to truly take over the reins and begin implementing the plans for diversification and modernization that his father had rejected. “From your mouth to God’s ear,” Charlotte muttered. A whistle sounded behind them. Hamp Browning, the family attorney, waved from the front porch. “Come on! It’s time.” They strode toward the house, where Zeke dropped into one of the rocking chairs on the porch. “We’ll see you on the other side.” Charlotte squeezed his shoulder once. “We’ll be right out here.” Raleigh followed Hamp back to Luther’s study. Kitted out in lots of wood and leather, the room still smelled of his daddy and the cigar he habitually allowed himself at the end of the day. He could just imagine the old man leaned back in the chair behind the massive desk set in front of the picture window that framed their spread. But it wasn’t his seat anymore. After today, it would be Raleigh’s. Twila sat in one of the two chairs in front of the desk, looking like she’d come dressed for a board meeting instead of the reading of a will at home. She’d never fit in around here, with her city airs and high-heeled shoes. He didn’t think he’d ever even seen her on a horse, and the only time she’d come out to the barn was to track down her husband. God forbid she risk stepping in something in her Feragucci shoes. Raleigh figured she’d be lighting out of here almost as soon as the reading was over. Back to Dallas, to her high-society friends. He lowered himself into the other chair as Hamp circled around to the opposite side of the desk. The old man sat with a creak of springs and leather, running a hand down the tie that fell to the paunch overhanging his belt, then back up to smooth his big walrus mustache. Not for the first time, Raleigh thought he wouldn’t look out of place as an extra in a western. Maybe in a leather vest at a poker table or behind the bar in an old saloon. The thought of it had his lips twitching into a smile. His mama would’ve appreciated the image. She had loved her westerns. On a sigh, Hamp opened the folder he’d placed on the blotter. “Let’s get to it, shall we?” As the lawyer fell into the drone of legalese, reading the last will and testament of Luther Alexander Beaumont, Raleigh’s gaze strayed past him to the window. Just a little while longer, then he’d finally be free to speak to the hands and their families, giving them the reassurance that nothing would change. They wouldn’t lose their homes or jobs. His mind shifted to what needed to be his first orders of action. He’d had plenty of time to consider that, but he had to think about the season and what expenses the ranch would have coming up. Abruptly, Raleigh realized Hamp and Twila were staring at him. “I’m sorry. I zoned out there for a minute. Can you break it down into layman’s terms?” Hamp glanced at Twila, then back at him, his expression apologetic. What the hell had he missed? Fighting not to curl his hands around the arms of the chair as a bad feeling set up like Quikrete in his gut, he waved at Hamp. “Go ahead; spit it out. I don’t care about the money. I just want the ranch.” The old man winced. “Your father left everything to Twila.” That couldn’t be right. Shock was the only thing that kept his voice level. “I’m sorry. What?” “All of it. He changed his will a few years ago. The stock, the land, the house. It all belongs to her now.” Raleigh exploded up, sending his chair skidding several feet back as he rounded on his father’s wife. “This is f*****g bullshit. This is my birthright. My mother’s family’s land. You have no right to it whatsoever. You don’t want this place. You have no interest in running a ranch.” Unperturbed, she lifted her chin, somehow managing to look down her nose at him from where she stayed seated, her long legs crossed neatly in the slim pencil skirt. “You’re right. I don’t. Which is why I’ve already made arrangements to sell it.” The blood drained out of Raleigh’s head. “Sell it? To who?” She named a developer who’d been sniffing around for years with designs on turning their several thousand acres into cookie-cutter suburban houses. As he let loose a string of profanity and began to pace, Twila examined her manicured nails. “You’re welcome to try to beat the price.” The figure she quoted was stratospheres above what Raleigh could afford. When he said nothing, she flashed a smug little smile. “That’s what I thought.” She turned back to Hamp. “If that’s all?” At his short nod, she picked up her designer purse. “You have a week to clear out.” Then she strode out of the room without a backward glance. Raleigh scrubbed a hand over his head. “This can’t be happening.” Hamp shoved up from the chair, looking about ten years older than he had when he’d sat down. “I’m sorry, son. There’s nothing we can do.” “Can I take her to court? Contest the will?” “You can try. But in my professional opinion, it’s going to cost you more than you’ve got, and you’re not going to come away with a ranch in the end. Luther was in his right mind when he changed his will. The bastard screwed you right and proper. There’s no two ways about it.” The sucker punch of it had Raleigh swaying on his feet in a way the loss of his father had not. It threw him back to the devastation of his mother’s death. He’d promised her he’d take care of the ranch. Take care of the people who worked there. Carry on their family legacy. And all of it had just been ripped away. He didn’t even remember leaving the room, not until he almost ran over Charlotte. “Honey, what happened?” Raleigh just shook his head and kept going. He needed out of the house, into the hot, humid air. As soon as he hit the front porch, Zeke pushed up from the rocking chair he’d commandeered. “What the hell happened?” “I got f****d, that’s what happened. The old man left her everything. All of it. The entire ranch. My mother’s ranch. She’s selling it to f*****g developers. It’s gonna be a goddamn neighborhood here next year. My home is liable to be bulldozed or turned into some kind of clubhouse. Not to mention what the hell happens to all the hands and their families.” Heart sinking, he scrubbed both hands over his face. “I promised them I’d look out for them, and there’s not a damned thing I can do about it. She gave me a f*****g week to get out.” His gaze caught on Charlotte’s face. Her expression had turned carefully neutral, but she’d lost all color. He realized he wasn’t the only one out of a home. “Fuuuuuck.” Zeke drew the word out. “Man, I’m sorry. I don’t even know what to tell you. I mean, I could—” Raleigh held up a hand, knowing what he was about to suggest. “Not an option. Thank you, but no.” “Alright. Well, in that case, I’m thinking the best option is gonna be for you to get the hell out of town before you do something you’re gonna regret.” Raleigh had no idea what he might do if he stayed and wasn’t much inclined to risk ending up behind bars. And yet. “I can’t just leave. I need to break the news to the hands. Do what I can to help them find other placements. And I should pull together the family momentos before that b***h tosses them all.” The idea of losing anything else of his family history made Raleigh sick. “I’ve already done a lot of that, setting things aside for you over the years,” Charlotte assured him. “It won’t take long to pull together the rest. We should probably hurry before that harpy gets it in her head you don’t have a right to them.”