The Texan's Secret

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

THE FIERCE AFTERNOON WIND whipped through the landscape like an errant child of Mother Nature, set on doing some damage. Heavy, dark clouds from the north threatened rain, a sure sign that the old lady had not finished her wrath of winter.

Chance Hardin hated March.

And all the agonizing memories it stirred.

He shifted uneasily at the kitchen table on the High Five ranch in High Cotton, Texas, and forced his eyes away from the window. Gripping his warm coffee cup, he stared into its murky depths, seeing a night as dark as the brew inside. Through the blackness the emotions of a twelve-year-old boy surfaced—a boy whose world had been shattered by loud voices, screams—and death.

On a miserable March night.

Chance felt his stomach twist into a knot as his brothers waited. He’d been avoiding this conversation for twenty-two years. How much longer could he stall?

“Come on, Chance.” Cadde was putting on the pressure, just like Chance knew he would. It was part of being an older brother. “You know Dad wanted us to work together.”

You didn’t really know him.

“Yeah.” Cisco, his middle brother, nicknamed Kid, joined in. “The oil business is in our blood. We’ve all been involved in the industry. Now, thanks to Roscoe Murdock, Cadde owns a big part of Shilah Oil. Of course, there were strings attached, but that didn’t stop ol’ Cadde.” Kid slapped Cadde on the back and received a knockout glare in return, that didn’t faze him one bit. “Come on, Chance, we can be the bosses, setting the pace and making Shilah Oil one of the best companies in Texas.”

Chance raised his head. “Roscoe’s daughter, Jessie, owns the biggest part, and she’ll be calling the shots.”

He didn’t know why he felt a need to remind his brothers of that, but the whole inheritance thing was a bit of a shock. Not that Cadde hadn’t earned it. He had.

Roscoe had been paranoid about Jessie’s safety ever since his niece had been kidnapped and murdered. After the tragedy he’d had Jessie guarded twenty-four hours a day. Cadde had told Chance that Jessie was seven at the time, and now she had to be close to thirty.

Even though she was a fully grown woman, Roscoe didn’t let up on his protection of Jessie. On his deathbed he’d made a deal with Cadde, who had been his right hand at Shilah. If Cadde married Jessie and promised to protect her, Roscoe would make him CEO of the oil company and sign over a portion of his shares. Roscoe just forgot to mention that his daughter would inherit the biggest part of Shilah Oil, the company Roscoe and his brother, Al, had started in the forties.

Chance had met Jessie a couple of times when he’d visited Cadde in Houston. She was a petite, dark-haired, dark-eyed beauty, and he could see why Cadde had no problem with the arrangement. Not that Chance knew much about it—Cadde’s marriage was his business. He just didn’t figure his brother as the marriage-of-convenience type. Although Cadde would do anything to further his career in the oil industry. It had been his dream since they were kids.

It had been the dream of their father.

“I can handle Jessie.”

Chance came back to the conversation with a start, but kept his emotions in check, as always. Fiddling with his cup, he had to admit that Cadde could probably handle Jessie—the way he handled everything in life, with his confident, can-do-anything air. Just like Kid, Cadde was unstoppable when he had his mind set on something.

“We need you, Chance. Your skill with the rigs is better than that of anyone I know. I want to try the new drilling techniques on some of the old leases, to give those fields a jump start. You’re the man to oversee the job.”

Chance swallowed hard. “I’m happy at Southern Cross.”

Cadde leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, his chair making a scraping noise on the tiled floor. “Why don’t you just admit that you still blame Kid and me for the accident?”

The kitchen became painfully quiet. Talking about that horrible night was something they never did. The wrought-iron clock on the wall ticked away precious seconds. Aunt Etta moved from the kitchen counter to stand a few feet from the table, a wooden spoon in her grasp just in case she had to break up a fight, much as she had when they were boys.

A hand lightly touched Chance’s shoulder—a gesture from Uncle Rufus, telling him to keep his cool. Their elderly aunt and uncle had taken the Hardin boys in after their parents’ tragic deaths, and knew them better than anyone.

“I never blamed you,” Chance said clearly and without emotion. That night was too heartbreaking to think about, but he could feel the memory slicing into his brain with a sharp edge of reality. His parents had been returning home to High Cotton from an out-of-town basketball game of Cadde’s and Cisco’s.

Chuck Hardin had pulled two shifts on an oil rig and then had taken his wife and Chance to the game because his sons had wanted him at the state championship. Speculation was he’d fallen asleep at the wheel. Chance knew differently. Dozing in the backseat, he was the only one who’d survived that fatal crash as the car had swerved, left the road and hit a tree. And the only one who knew what had really happened that night.

He planned to take that secret to the grave.

Cadde eased back, his dark eyes pinned on Chance. All three brothers had the deep brown eyes of their father. “You’ve been different ever since. Distant. Getting anything out of you is like pulling teeth.”

Chance didn’t squirm. He met Cadde’s stare. “Losing one’s parents can change a person.”

“Yeah,” Kid interjected in a nostalgic tone. “We’ve all changed, but it’s time for us to be family again—the Hardin boys taking on the world.”

That sounded good to Chance, but he couldn’t weaken. Guilt beat at him like a persistent hangover. If he spent more time around his brothers, he wouldn’t be able to keep his secret. Telling them would destroy their love and trust of their father, as it had destroyed his. He wouldn’t do that—ever.

Uncle Rufus stood. In his seventies, bowlegged and a cowboy to the core, Rufus Johns spoke little, but when he did, they listened. He and Aunt Etta had worked for the High Five ranch since they were teenagers, and lived in a small house not far from the big house, as they called the Belle residence on the ranch. Now Rufus, as he’d been many times when they’d lived with him, was again their mediator.

“Your brothers asked you a question. It requires a simple yes or no. What’s your answer?”