The Texan

The fact that he’d given his heart to a gold digger hurt Rafe’s pride, but not nearly as much as the knowledge that she’d never loved him in return. He’d been a fool.

More than anything Rafe hated the way his stomach still turned over every time he thought about Cheryl. Her betrayal had been so razor-sharp that he felt he’d been left for dead before he even knew he was cut. Paul’s part in Rafe’s annihilation was secondary, but it was easier for Rafe to talk about Paul than about Cheryl. At least his emotions didn’t stick so viciously in his craw.

Rafe had learned all too well that the only way to fight anger and bitterness was to turn himself off... completely. Detachment was becoming a way of life for him and it suited him just fine. Nobody could ever hurt him again as long as he didn’t allow it, he’d told himself.

Rafe turned cool blue eyes back to Matt. “What’s done is done. I can’t change the past. If you truly believe selling the ranch is the way I should go...”

“I do. There’s a slim chance we won’t have to declare bankruptcy.”

“Bankruptcy is not an option for me. Few people realize it, but that black mark is made with indelible ink.”

Rafe looked out the nineteenth-story window at the Houston skyline. Beyond downtown stretched miles of highways, out to a second skyline of buildings around the Galleria and then further out to the northwest where the sprawling city was no more than scattered pockets of houses. Where land and sky drew together on the horizon was his beloved ranch. His mouth went dry knowing he’d lost it.

How cocky he’d been just a year ago. He’d thought Houston sat squarely in the palm of his hand. Every top executive wanted to do business with him. His technology was on the cutting edge of the lightning-fast world of global telecommunications. Rafe Whitten was the “man to watch” the Houston Chronicle had written. Even the Wall Street Journal cited him for his clever deal-cutting. Money marketers and stockbrokers in every major city were salivating over the day he’d take his company public. He was going to be a multimillionaire overnight, or so everyone thought.

But his partner, Paul, had gotten too greedy, too soon. He not only blew the deal, he sold Rafe down the river while doing it. With the company coffers wiped out, Rafe owed his initial investors millions of dollars. He’d sold everything he owned, the townhouse inside the Loop, his cars, ski boat and the lake condo at Walden. This was worse than the oil crash less than a decade ago. He’d weathered that downturn despite the fact he’d only been twenty-six years old. This time, his situation was much worse; the bust came from a viper at home.

Matt could tell from the flinty look in Rafe’s eyes that his friend was thinking about Cheryl.

Rafe’s hollow voice broke the silence. “I should have listened to you, Matt. From the day I met that blond she-devil at the Houston Livestock and Rodeo Show, you told me she was bad news walking. I remember accusing you of being too cerebral, too analytical and maybe even a bit jealous. Being a good friend, you kept your mouth shut. For a while we were happy, though. The company was moving along slowly but steadily in the kind of way that makes you CPAs comfortable. I gave Cheryl enough trinkets to keep her amused. Obviously, it wasn’t enough.”

Matt stood and went over to Rafe, put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I wish I’d been wrong about her.”

“Me, too.”

“You know, Rafe, we accountants like everything neat and tidy. So I hope you won’t get mad at me if I ask you something.”

His blue eyes, now reflecting a hard steel gray, never wavered from the horizon. “What is it?”

“Something here doesn’t add up. You’ve never been gullible a moment in your life that I’ve ever seen. So how is it that someone with your brains and savvy fell for her tricks? It just doesn’t seem right. There’s a very large piece of this puzzle missing.”

Rafe shrugged. “Hey, love is blind.” He finally turned to Matt, but his eyes were colder than ever. “You can bet one thing. I’ll never let any of it happen to me again. Once bitten...”

“You can’t mean you intend to be alone forever.”

“I don’t see a problem with that. You see a problem?” Rafe asked angrily, a nerve along his jawline twitching.

“Gotcha,” Matt replied quickly, not wanting to upset his friend anymore.

Turning to the brass hatrack, Rafe took his black cowboy hat off the top hook and settled it on his head. He put his hand out to Matt. “Thanks for all your help. You’ve been a good friend.”

Feeling somehow guilty and responsible for Rafe’s solemn mood, Matt said, “Why don’t we go out for a drink before you head back to the ranch?”

“Naw. The last thing I want is to be around a bunch of people who...”

Frustrated with Rafe’s seemingly implacable need to cut himself off from humanity, Matt interrupted. “Who might be having fun? Who might take your mind off things?” Suddenly, Matt was on a mission. If he let Rafe drive home in his present mood, he would only retreat into a deeper depression. True, Rafe had good reasons to be gloomy, but he’d been telling Matt he was giving up on life. Thoughts that black had to be attacked before their stain set in permanently.

“I have things to do,” Rafe replied, as he turned toward the door.

Matt caught him by the arm. “Well, I don’t. Since I know you can’t possibly pay me all you owe me, the least you can do is buy me a beer on my birthday.”

“Aw, you’re kidding. I didn’t know it was your birthday. Of course we’ll go out.”

“Great!” Matt said grabbing his briefcase and shoving his arms in his jacket. “Actually, it’s not my birthday,” he confessed sheepishly as he held the office door for Rafe.

“Why, you little...” Rafe playfully raised his fist.

“Watch it. You’re bigger than I am. It was only a little lie. Besides, today must be somebody’s birthday.”

“Look, Matt. I’ll have a beer with you, but I’m not going to celebrate,” Rafe said with finality as they left.

One

Houston, Texas

“I’m giving up men forever,” Angela Morton sighed glumly to her friends and co-workers, Ilsa Prentiss and Julia Freeman. As Angela sank her chin into her hand, one of the black-and-silver “Over the Hill” balloons that was tied to the back of her chair bobbed up and down, hitting her in the face. She batted it away.

“This is supposed to be your thirtieth birthday party. It’s time to have fun!” Ilsa replied with a wide smile.

“Don’t be so hard on her,” Julia scolded Ilsa, with her usual mother-hen tone of voice. Julia was the receptionist at the offices of Patrick Gallagher Realtors and being the oldest of the three at the ripe old age of thirty-two, she felt she was not only more experienced in “men matters,” but she’d been married and divorced when both Angela and Ilsa had not been married at all... yet. She was confident her advice was always on target.

“Look at her,” Ilsa said, pointing at Angela. “I’ve never seen a more perfect portrait of doom. The bags under her eyes are packed for Europe.”

“What bags?” Angela asked and instantly looked under her chair for her purse. “Since when have I ever had bags? God! Getting old is the pits,” she said, but Ilsa and Julia weren’t listening. They were too busy dissecting Angela’s life for her. “I’ve been working overtime lately. I’m trying to make a living,” she replied with false haughtiness. “I would never waste a minute’s sleep over a man. You can be sure of that.”

“Certainly not,” Ilsa commented as her eyes zeroed in on a tall, lean, blond cowboy in a very tight pair of jeans and a black hat. “Anyway, I overheard Randy barking orders at you last week to get your sales up.”

“Don’t remind me. Not on my birthday. Okay?”

“I think she’s absolutely right to give up men,” Julia said flatly as she took a long sip of a gigantic frozen margarita in front of her.

“You do?” Angela’s eyes widened in shock. “Why?”

“Take a look at your track record. First was James. What a loser that guy was. He couldn’t keep a job for more than six months. Once you finally kicked him out of the apartment, you discovered he’d maxed your cards.”

“That was six years ago,” Angela said.

“Yeah. And it took you eighteen months to pay off the bills. Then there was Rick who thought it was okay to hit on all your girlfriends.”

“A real peach of a guy,” Ilsa agreed, munching on her sixth handful of snack mix.

“Last but not least was Larry. The jerk of all jerks who not only married your college roommate, but screwed you out of at least six months of real estate commissions. Remember the rules? Never sleep with a Realtor.”

Angela was more depressed than ever. “Let’s not drag up the past, shall we?”

“We learn from the past,” Julia wagged her finger at her friend.

“That is precisely what I’m talking about. Men today aren’t real men like...my great-grandfather was.”