Thunderbolt over Texas

“Don’t you dare.”

She turned to him and blinked. “Dare what?”

“Don’t you try to match me up.”

“With whom?”

“Grandma.”

“Close the door, dear. We’re running late.”

Cole opened his mouth to speak, but then snapped it shut again.

His grandmother had inherited the stubbornness and tenacity of her ancestors. He knew all about that, because he’d inherited it, too.

He banged the door shut, cursing under his breath as he rounded the front grill. There was no point in arguing anymore today. But if she started a parade of Wichita Falls’ fairest and finest through the ranch house, he was going bull riding in Canada.

Cultural Properties Curator Sydney Wainsbrook felt her stomach clench and her adrenaline level rise as Bradley Slander sauntered across the foyer of New York’s Laurent Museum. A champagne flute dangled carelessly from his fingers and that scheming smile made his beady brown eyes look even smaller and more rat-like than usual.

“Better luck next time, Wainsbrook,” he drawled, tipping his head back to take an inelegant swig of the ’96 Cristal champagne. His Adam’s apple bobbed and he smacked his lips with exaggerated self-satisfaction.

Yeah, he would feel self-satisfied. He had just outbid her on an antique, gold Korean windbell, earning a hefty commission and making it the possession of a private collector instead of a public museum.

It was the third time this year he’d squatted in the wings like a vulture while she did the legwork. The third time he scrabbled in at the last second to ruin her deal.

Sydney had nothing against competition. And she understood an owner’s right to sell their property to the highest bidder. What galled her was the way Bradley slithered around her contacts, fed them inflated estimates to convince them to consider auction. Then he bid much lower than his estimate, disappointing the owner and keeping important heritage finds from the community forever.

“How do you sleep at night?” she asked.

Bradley leaned his shoulder against a marble pillar and crossed one ankle over the other. “Let’s see. I spend an hour or so in my hot tub, sip a glass of Napoleon brandy, listen to a bit of classical jazz, then crawl into my California king and close my eyes. How about you?”

She pointedly shifted her gaze to the stone wall beside them. “I fantasize about you and that broad ax.”

He smirked. “Happy to be in your fantasy, babe.”

“Yeah? The broad ax wins. You lose.”

“Might be worth it.”

“Gag me.”

His lips curved up into a wider smile. “Whatever turns your crank.”

A shudder ran through Sydney at the unbidden visual. She took a quick drink of her own champagne, wishing it was a good, stiff single malt. It might have been a long dry spell, but she wouldn’t entertain sexual thoughts about Bradley if he was the last man on earth.

Bradley chuckled. “So, tell me. What’s next?”

She raised an eyebrow.

“On your list. What are we going after? I gotta tell you, Wainsbrook, you are my ticket to the big time.”

“Should I just e-mail you my research notes? Save you some trouble?”

“Whatever’s most convenient.”

“What’s most convenient is for you to stick your head in a very dark place for a very long time.”

“Sydney, Sydney, Sydney.” He clucked. “And here I tell all my friends you’re a lady.”

“It’ll be a cold day in hell before I voluntarily give you any information.”

He shrugged. “Suit yourself.” Then he leaned in. “I have to admit. The chase kind of turns me on.”

Fighting the urge to fulfill her broad-ax fantasy, Sydney clenched her jaw. What was she going to do now?

She was on probation at the Laurent Museum due to her lack of productivity this year. If Bradley scooped one more of her finds, she’d be out of a job altogether. Her boss had made that much clear enough after the auction this afternoon.

What she needed was some room to maneuver. She needed to get away from Bradley, maybe leave the country. Go to Mexico, or Peru, or…France. Oh! She quickly reversed the smile that started to form.

“See?” purred Bradley. “You like the game, too. You know you do.”

Sydney struggled not to gag on that one.

He held up his empty glass in a mock salute. “Until next time.”

“Next time,” Sydney muttered, having no intention whatsoever of giving him a next time. She figured the odds of Bradley following her overseas were remote, which meant the Thunderbolt of the North was wide open.

She had three years’ worth of research notes on the legendary antique brooch, including credible evidence it was once blessed by Pope Urban the Fifth.

Forged by the Viking King, Olav the Third, in 1075, the jewel-encrusted treasure had journeyed into battles and crossed seas. Some claimed it was used as collateral to found the Sisters of Beneficence convent at La Roche.

Most thought it was a legend, but Sydney knew it existed. In somebody’s attic. In somebody’s jewel case. In somebody’s safe-deposit box. If even half the stories were true, the Thunderbolt had an uncanny knack for survival.

And if it had survived, she’d pick up its trail. If she picked up its trail, she’d find it. And when she found it, she’d make sure it stayed with the Laurent Museum—even if she had to hog-tie Bradley Slander to keep him out of the bidding.

Life was looking up for Cole. He’d spent the past three days at a livestock auction in Butte, Montana, with his eye on one beauty of a quarter horse. In the end, he’d outbid outfits from California and Nevada to bring Night-Dreams home to the Valley.

He might not be in a position to produce the next round of Erickson heirs, but he was sure in a position to produce top-quality cutting horses. That had to count for something.

Cole tossed his duffel bag on the cabin floor and kicked the door shut behind him. Of course it counted for something. It counted for a lot. And he had to get his grandmother’s voice out of his head.

It had been months since the wedding. He wasn’t a stud, and she could only make him feel guilty if he let her.

He pulled a battered percolator from a kitchen shelf and scooped some coffee into the basket. As soon as Katie was pregnant, he’d make his case for the Thunderbolt again. If Olav the Third could start a tradition, Cole the First could change it.

He filled the coffeepot with water and cranked the knob on his propane stove. The striker clicked in the silent kitchen. Then the blue flame burst to life.

A four-cylinder engine whined its way down his dirt driveway, and Cole abandoned the coffeepot to peer out the window. His family drove eight-cylinder pickups. In fact everybody in the valley drove pickups.