Branded

There was no way to know by his demeanor, but Jake intended to find out.

Kent said, “Too rich for my blood, hombres,” and tossed down his cards with a sigh.

Tom was next. He glanced at Jake over his bifocals and said, “I’ll meet your twenty-five and raise you fifty.”

The other two quickly folded as well.

Curtis dealt them each their last card.

There was a pile of money on the table and the three onlookers watched intently. Jake said, “I’ll meet your fifty and call.”

Tom studied his cards but, before he could answer, the door from the bar opened, banging against the wall, and a sea of noise swept into the room.

Neither Jake nor Tom acknowledged the intrusion. Jake kept his eyes on Tom, wondering if he had the cards to beat him.

Jake’s concentration was suddenly shattered when his cousin Jordan spoke immediately beside him.

“Sorry to interrupt, Jake, but you’re needed at the ranch right away.”

Jake shook his head without turning. “Not now, Jordan. Whatever it is, you can handle it.”

“Wish I could, but I can’t. You need to get out there. Now.”

Tom smiled at Jake. “Go on, Crenshaw, I’ll guard the pot,” causing the other three to laugh.

“I just bet you will. If you’re staying in, pay up and let me see what you have.”

Tom paid, then placed his cards on the table—three jacks and a pair of tens, a full house. “I hope this teaches you something, Crenshaw,” he said and reached for the pot.

“Yeah, Tom, it teaches me that I should have raised you a hundred,” Jake replied, and turned the three cards he had down face up. He had a straight flush, three through seven, of clubs. He stood and reached for the money. “I hate to break this up, but as you can see, I’m needed elsewhere.”

The rest of them gave him a bad time about winning and leaving immediately afterward, accusing him of planning it that way. Tom leaned back in his chair and said, “Well, hell, Crenshaw, the least you could do is give me a chance to win some of my money back!”

Jake lifted the corners of his mouth in a slight smile. “Next week, Tommy, my boy,” he said to the banker. “You’ll get your chance.”

He finished folding the money and stuck it into his shirt pocket. For the first time since Jordan had barged into the room, Jake turned and actually looked at him. Twenty-six-year-old Jordan was generally laid-back and low-key. Jake had never seen him this agitated before.

Jake said his goodbyes and walked into the other room, Jordan close on his heels. He continued moving through the crowd, responding to greetings without pausing, until they were outside in the graveled parking lot.

He turned and faced his cousin with considerable irritation.

“All right, Jordan, what the hell is so blasted important that you had to interrupt me at the game tonight? This is my only time to relax, kick back and enjoy myself. If the place were on fire, you would have called the fire department. If you’d spotted rustlers, you would have called the sheriff. So what, in your mind, couldn’t wait until I got home?”

“Tiffany.”

Jake stiffened. “What are you talking about?” His voice grew louder.

“She’s at the ranch.”

Jake stared at Jordan, stunned. Why would his ex-wife show up after all this time? He gave his head a quick shake. “Did she say what she wanted?”

Jordan got into his truck and slammed the door. “I’ll let her explain that. Told her I’d come get you and I have. Now I’m headed home. If I hadn’t been concerned about one of my mares, I wouldn’t have been there when she showed up.” He gave a brief wave and left.

Jake stood there, his hands on his hips, staring at the taillights until they disappeared from view. Tiffany Rogers had come back to the ranch after she’d vowed never to step foot on the place again. Wasn’t that just dandy? He’d never expected to see her again and couldn’t imagine what she wanted from him now.

He shook his head in frustration before he climbed into his truck and headed toward the ranch, thirty miles from town.

What could she want—he glanced his watch—at close to midnight on a Friday night? Hadn’t the woman caused him enough trouble?

He remembered the night before she left. She’d been sleeping in a guest bedroom earlier in the week, which wasn’t unusual when she didn’t get her way about something. By that time in their marriage, he felt he had done everything he could to make her happy and had learned to ignore her sulking. Despite her princess attitude, he’d loved her. He’d hoped that, given time, she would eventually mature into the woman he got glimpses of from time to time.

When he awakened that night and felt her in bed with him, he thought she’d gotten over her latest snit and was ready to make up. He’d sometimes wondered if she picked fights with him because she enjoyed their ritual of reconciling. Whatever her reason, he hadn’t put up much resistance, he remembered ruefully.

When he’d left the house at dawn the next morning, as was his habit, he believed that everything was fine between them. When he returned to the house later that day, she was gone, having taken all her possessions as well as some of his.

Within hours, he’d been served with divorce papers. That was when he knew she hadn’t been making up with him. She’d been saying goodbye.

They’d been divorced long enough now for him to recover from the shock and devastation he’d felt at the time. They’d been married almost four years when their relationship had blown up in his face.

Of course, he should have known that a Dallas socialite wouldn’t be happy living in the country but she’d insisted she didn’t care where they lived as long as they were together, and he had been too besotted to realize that their marriage wouldn’t work. She’d said what he wanted to hear and he had believed her.

Anyone with half a brain would look at the woman and know that Tiffany Rogers of the Dallas Rogerses would never be content as his wife. He hadn’t seen it at the time, probably because his brain hadn’t been the part of him making his decisions. Later, during one of her frequent tirades, she’d told him the only reason she’d married him was that he was a Crenshaw—a member of one of the most wealthy and powerful families in the state.

Their divorce had been far from amicable, as the lawyers liked to call a divorce where the husband rolls over and plays dead while the wife walks off with everything. Four years hardly constituted a long-term union and his lawyer—and poker-playing friend, Curtis Boyd—had vigorously fought her when she’d asked for an outrageous amount of money for alimony. He and Curtis knew she didn’t need the money. She’d just wanted to get back at him because he refused to let her stomp all over him.

The day he walked out of the courthouse a free man, he made a vow to himself never to get married again. He’d learned his lesson well. Marriage might be great for other people, but he wanted no part of it. He was content to remain a bachelor for the rest of his life.

Now she was back here for God only knew what reason, and once again he was being forced to face her.

The road to the ranch had little traffic at this time of night. He followed its winding path through picturesque hills until he had to slow for the turn into the ranch entrance.

The entrance was framed on either side by curving walls of limestone fashioned years before he was born. He and his brothers used to play king of the mountain on their broad surfaces until the time their dad caught them. Tonight, Jake scarcely noticed the entrance as he continued along the paved private road that eventually led to the main ranch house.

When he reached the house and parked, Jake noticed a black limousine sitting in the shadows beneath the trees. That would be Tiffany, all right, always traveling in style.

With an irritated sigh, Jake got out of the cab of the truck, slammed the door with a satisfying sound and strode toward a side entrance. The sharp sound of his boots on the patio echoed his impatience. He stepped inside the door that opened into the kitchen.

He stopped just inside the doorway. Tiffany sat at the kitchen bar, calmly sipping a glass of iced tea. She’d cut her hair since he’d last seen her and she had on slacks and an open-necked shirt, looking as though she were waiting for a modeling shoot, her hair and makeup impeccable.

As soon as she saw him, Tiffany slipped off the stool and faced him, smiling brilliantly. He recognized—only because he knew her so well—that she was nervous.

Smart woman.

It took a lot of nerve for her to walk into his house when he wasn’t there and make herself at home.

He leaned against the doorjamb, folded his arms and waited, his eyes shaded by his hat.

Her smile dimmed.