Millionaire in a Stetson

“The Raklin place?” Travis asked.

“That’s the one.”

“Good graze in the high country. Water issues in late September, but I expect you’ve looked into that.”

Sawyer popped the top of his beer, letting his gaze focus on Niki as she spread mayonnaise on a hamburger bun then layered on slices of pickles. Katrina was beside her, laughing and chatting one moment, then talking low into her ear the next. He hadn’t expected this much of a shield around Niki. In fact, he hadn’t expected anyone to be close to her at all.

“I hear the water-license issue is going to be resolved soon,” he said to Travis.

Travis laughed. “Anybody define ‘soon’ for you?”

Sawyer couldn’t help but smile at Travis’s skepticism. Truth was, the long-term viability of the Raklin place as a working ranch was the least of Sawyer’s worries. He only expected to own it for a few months. Dylan Bennett, the ranch manager’s son from the Layton family’s Montana ranch had agreed to come out and run the spread in the short term to keep up appearances.

But as soon as Sawyer was done with Niki, his lawyers would put it back on the market. And, if the water license proved a stumbling block to selling, Sawyer could solve it with a single phone call. Charles might be the senator from Maryland, but he golfed with the senator from Colorado, and he had a whole lot of D.C. markers he could call in.

Assuming, of course, Gabriella’s diary didn’t get him kicked out of office and thrown in jail first.

“We’ve been fighting that particular war for a couple of years now,” said Travis.

“Need any help?”

Travis arched a brow.

Sawyer took a swig of his beer, realizing it had been foolish of him to offer. “I know a couple of politicians,” he explained.

“My brother was elected Mayor last year. I think he’s got the political angle covered.”

“Good enough, then.”

There was no sense in taking on somebody else’s fight. Sawyer’s attention strayed back to Niki. He obviously had enough trouble on his hands.

“Since there is no earthly reason you would buy yourself a cattle ranch in Colorado,” Dylan Bennett opened as soon as Sawyer came in through the front door of the Raklin place.

The man had parked himself in the living room of the ranch house, boots up on a worn, leather ottoman. “And since you’re calling yourself Smith—unimaginative as hell, by the way. I’m guessing somebody’s in trouble.”

“We’re the Laytons,” Sawyer responded drily, pausing to plunk his Stetson on a wall peg in the entryway and rake a hand through his short hair. “Trouble is our middle name.”

Dylan glanced around the expansive, recently updated living and dining areas of the big house. It was roomy and nicely finished, with gleaming hardwood, freshly painted walls, and a myriad of high ceilings, hewn wooden beams and panoramic windows.

“Pretty deep trouble,” he drawled. “Judging by how much this place must have set you back.”

“You always were smarter than the average cowboy,” Sawyer drawled, moving into the living room.

“You want to catch me up?” Dylan stretched back in the worn armchair.

By contrast to the house, the furnishings were grim. They consisted of the leftovers the Raklins hadn’t bothered to pack up, a worn brown sofa, a creaky armchair and a dated, arborite table with four mustard-yellow, vinyl chairs with spindly metal legs.

“You bring any beer?” Sawyer asked Dylan before sitting down.

“Stocked the fridge.” Dylan cocked his head toward the kitchen where the Raklins had left four high-end, fairly new appliances. “Didn’t make much sense to waste a trip through town.”

“Good thinking,” Sawyer approved, carrying on through the dining room to the kitchen.

He liberated a couple of bottles of Coors from the refrigerator door then made his way back to Dylan.

“It’s Charles, isn’t it?” asked Dylan as he accepted one of the icy-cold beers.

“What makes you say that?” Not that Sawyer had any intention of denying the truth to Dylan. Dylan was on their side. He’d been loyal his entire life.

As teenagers, the two men had run pretty wild together whenever Sawyer visited the Montana ranch. They stole liquor from the cook’s pantry, borrowed more than one ranch pickup truck, got into fistfights and picked up girls. Their exploits had cemented a friendship, and Sawyer would trust Dylan with his life.

Dylan looked pointedly around the ranch house. “You bought yourself ten-thousand acres of prime land. As cover stories go, it’s the very definition of overkill. I figure the only reason you’d go to this much trouble is to protect Charles’ Senate seat.”

“You nailed it,” Sawyer agreed, dropping onto the old, lumpy sofa and taking a swig of his beer. It was cool against his throat, dry from breathing in the dust of the construction site.

“You’re blending,” Dylan stated.

“In with the locals,” Sawyer confirmed. He and his uncle had concocted the plan together.

“What the hell did Charles do to warrant this level of complexity?”

Sawyer knew he shouldn’t smile. It was a serious situation. But Dylan was right, they were cleaning up a big mess with high stakes, and that situation inevitably involved Uncle Charles.

“You ever heard of Gabriella Gerard?” Sawyer asked.

“Can’t say that I have.”

“She was a D.C. legend, infamous around the town. Nobody knew where she came from, but everyone agreed she could have launched a thousand ships with one crook of her baby finger.

Word on the street is that she had affairs with some very powerful men. She accepted their gifts and their money, used their stock tips to get rich. She apparently squirreled away their secrets in a tell-all diary. And then she died. And the diary is nowhere to be found, neither is her daughter Niki.”

“I take it Charles is featured in the diary?” Dylan guessed.

“And the daughter is featured in Colorado, in Lyndon Valley to be precise, in hiding.”

“Is she Charles’ daughter?”

“No chance of that. The dates were way off.” Plus, Sawyer now knew she was Wilton Terrell’s daughter.

Dylan gave a single nod of understanding, peeling at the corner of the beer label with his thumb. “You’re here to get the diary.”

Sawyer responded with a mock toast. “Indeed, I am. Charles would prefer his wife not find out he cheated.”

“Understandable.”

“He’d also prefer the Elections Commission not know about certain campaign contributions.”

“Also understandable.” Dylan took a swig of his beer.