One Ticket To Texas. Jan Hudson

      In a few minutes he joined her at the table. A chocolate cupcake sat on a napkin at his place; its mate sat in front of her. “I hope you don’t mind instant,” he said. “The stuff in the pot was sludge.”

      “Instant is fine.”

      They ate in relative silence. When she’d finished the last bite, she licked the chocolate off her fingers and sighed. “I love junk food, especially chocolate. I had to deny myself for years. I’ve gained fifteen pounds since I left New York.”

      “They’re well disguised. You seem very slender to me.”

      “Thanks.” She grinned. “Want another cupcake?”

      “Let’s go for it.”

      She wasted no time in getting another and ripping open the package. She handed one to him and demolished the other one in a flash. After licking her fingers again, she held her mug with both hands and sipped her coffee. Her eyes glazed as she stared at a spot over his left shoulder, and a wrinkle appeared between her lovely eyebrows.

      “A problem?” he asked.

      “A big one. I can’t go back to Washington until I...interview Jackson Crow. If he won’t return until Monday, I don’t have a place to stay. I was planning on being a guest at Crow’s Nest.” Her frown deepened. “Are those, uh, tepees outside inhabitable?”

      He chuckled. “Well, the sheets and towels are clean and they don’t leak, but I doubt if they’re what you’re used to. They’re pretty basic. You would probably be more comfortable if you drove to Jacksonville or Tyler and stayed in a nicer place.”

      “I can’t do that.” Her eyes still troubled, she ran the tip of her tongue back and forth over a small area of the mug’s rim. Kyle couldn’t take his eyes off that bit of pink, and as he watched, mesmerized, his imagination went wild. “You see, I’m, uh, a little short on cash. I was hoping that your tepees would be cheap.”

      “The tepees? Cheap? Oh, they’re cheap. Very cheap.” Kyle almost stood up and whooped. He wasn’t anxious for her to leave just yet. “As a matter of fact, your commission on the sale to Corrie and Edgar would more than cover room and board here until Jackson gets back.”

      Her eyes widened. “My commission?”

      “Sure. And if you need a little extra cash, I could use some help around here until Alma Jane gets back tomorrow or the next day.”

      “Help? Doing what?”

      “Tending the store While I wield the chain saw. Or better yet, how would you like reading to an irascible old man? Pete’s big on reading, but his eyes play out after a while. The job wouldn’t pay much, but—”

      “I’ll take it. But just until Jackson returns, you understand.”

      “Fine. We have a deal.” He couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face. Wonder if he could persuade Jackson to stay in Dallas a few extra days?

      The wrinkle between her brows disappeared, and she beamed. “Great. If you’ll give me a key, I’ll get settled in.”

      

      

      Irish drove the Benz to the door of tepee number two and unloaded her luggage. She unlocked the door and cautiously peeked inside.

      Kyle was right. It was very basic. Most of the furniture was made from bundles of twigs and sticks. There was a faded, but clean-looking, Indian blanket on the bed. The dresser was in its prime about the time of World War II, and two large paint-by-number oils were framed in rough wood and hanging on the walls. One was an Indian chief in full feather; the other, a spotted horse in a red desert. A wooden rocking chair, its seat made of taut cowhide with the hair still on, sat in a corner.

      Irish sighed and hauled her things inside. “Home, sweet home.”

      She checked the sheets and the bed. And the locks.

      The sheets were crisp and fresh-smelling, the mattress amazingly lump-free and comfortable. The bathroom fixtures were old but immaculate. And most important, the locks were sturdy. The place wasn’t the Plaza, but the price was right, and it would do.

      After she hung up her clothes and put her other things away, Irish changed out of her new outfit into jeans, a white T-shirt and a chambray shirt. A pair of sport shoes felt like heaven compared to the new high-heeled boots, which didn’t look too bad considering the punishment they’d had. A quick repair to hair and makeup and she was ready to meet Cherokee Pete.

      Sounds of the chain saw came from the shed, and Irish figured that Kyle was back at work on another bear or a bow-legged cowpoke. She went inside the store and hesitated only a moment before she tiptoed upstairs. She didn’t want to disturb the old gentleman if he was still sleeping.

      Following the noise of a TV, she went toward an open door off the landing, noting as she passed that the large painting on the wall there was an excellent copy of a Remington. And much more attractive than the Indian and spotted pony on her walls.

      The room she peeked in was a large library. Straight ahead was a huge stone fireplace with another of the Remington copies hung on it and several Southwestern pots and such on the mantel. Two large leather couches flanked the fireplace and a coffee table, made from a slice- of a huge tree, sat between the oxblood couches. Additional pots and a statue of a breechclouted brave, much more finely wrought than the wooden ones downstairs, stood atop the table. Other wing chairs and leather club chairs with ottomans were grouped around the room. The place looked more like a gentlemen’s club than the upstairs of the junky trading post below.

      Floor to ceiling shelves in polished wood took up most of the available wall space, and they were filled with books. Her gaze followed the bulging shelves until they came to an alcove at one end of the room, to a hospital bed beside a window, to a pair of dark eyes watching her.

      She smiled. “Hello. I’m Irish Ellison. May I come in?”

      “Looks like you’re in already. Come closer and let me get a good gander at you. These old eyes ain’t what they used to be. Irish, you say? Never heard nobody named that except it was a nickname.”

      “It’s my real name. My mother was mostly Irish and a romantic,” she said as she crossed the room to the bed.

      He reminded her of an older, more wiry version of Willie Nelson. His hair was thinning on top, but the sides hung in long gray braids. The skin over his high cheekbones was leathery and wrinkled, but his dark eyes flashed with vitality, and Irish doubted if they missed much.

      He held up a remote control and pressed it. The TV sound died. “I’m Pete Beamon, but everybody calls me Cherokee Pete. Called me that as long as I can remember. Half Cherokee from my mother’s side. M‘wife was Irish. Honey-colored hair and blue eyes she had. Beautiful woman, like you. Been gone forty-three years next November. She was a schoolteacher. Taught me how to read after I was grown. We started collecting these books over fifty years ago. Come, sit down here.” He pointed to an easy chair beside his bed. “Tell me what a pretty gal like you is doin’ in these parts.”

      “Don’t let me interrupt your—” Irish glanced to the wall where the television was and startled. Instead of a single TV, a bank of six screens were mounted there. Two were blank, but two showed the interior of the store downstairs, and two others scanned the outside grounds. “But that’s—”

      “Surveillance. These old eyes don’t miss much. You take a hankerin’ to my grandson?”

      Irish cleared her throat and tried not to squirm. “He’s—he’s very attractive, but I’m not interested.”

      Cherokee Pete gave a little bark of laughter. “That’s not what I saw. I like the cut of you, Irish Ellison. Could tell that right off. Tell you what. You marry my grandson, and I’ll give you a million dollars.”

      Three

      Irish