The Prodigal Texan

Miranda couldn’t let it alone. “You haven’t been home for more than a night in fifteen years. Why the urge to stay on now?”

Jud opened his mouth, and she thought she might get an answer. But then Wade stepped up beside them.

“I’m responsible for that, Ms. Mayor. Let’s meet in your office Monday morning about ten and I’ll explain what’s going on.” Wade drew Jud away to meet his wife, and Miranda had to be satisfied with what little she knew.

Twilight came early in December, and they finished cleaning up the park in near darkness. Finally, Miranda climbed into her truck and let her head fall back against the seat. “I’m exhausted. Baling a field of hay is an easier day’s work than throwing a party.”

In the passenger seat, her mom chuckled. “That’s why we’re farmers, not event planners, or whatever they’re called.”

“Now that’s a horrid thought—a continual round of parties to plan, set up and take down.” Miranda shuddered. “Just kill me.”

As they drove out of town, they passed Cruz’s bright blue truck still parked on the curb, with Jud standing at the driver’s open door.

“Was that Jud Ritter?” Nan turned her head to stare out the rear window.

“Didn’t you see him at the party? He showed up while we were decorating Greer’s Blazer.”

“No, I didn’t.” Her mother dropped back into her seat. “I guess I wasn’t paying attention. Did he come back for the wedding?”

“He didn’t even come back for his own brother’s ceremony. He wouldn’t say exactly why he’s here, but Wade has something to do with it. We’re going to meet Monday so he can explain.”

“I’m surprised he was talking to Cruz, though. I don’t think Jud’s been home since Cruz came to town.”

“Wade very kindly arranged for Jud to stay at Cruz’s place while he’s here.”

“What?” The sharpness of the word was completely unlike her mother’s usual drawl.

“I don’t like the idea, either. I mean, Cruz leases the house, but you still own it, and I’m not sure where he gets off having somebody else stay there.”

“Oh…well, of course, Cruz is free to have friends stay with him.” Nan raked her fingers through her cap of sleek silver hair. “We didn’t object when his brother came up from Mexico.”

“Yes, but—” What did she mean to say? “Jud just plain makes me uncomfortable.”

“I know. I remember the tears he cost you all those years ago. But you’ve both grown up. I doubt you’ll even notice he’s in town.”

Miranda glanced into the rearview mirror and saw two sets of headlights following her as she turned off the highway into their private drive.

“I’ll notice,” she growled. “Jud will make sure of that.”

JUD SLOWED DOWN as he approached the entrance to Hayseed Farm, allowing the two trucks in front of him to get well ahead. Thanks to his childhood feud with Miranda, he’d never set foot on Hayseed Farm during his years in Homestead. This was his first— and maybe his only—chance to satisfy his curiosity.

On both sides of the narrow gravel lane, winter hay had sprouted, narrow green shoots standing ankle high in row after row, acre upon acre. Miranda’s mother had managed the farm since her husband died, when Miranda was only three. For thirty years, Nan Wright had single-handedly planted, harvested and baled hay for local livestock farmers. Like any farm kid, Miranda probably helped out as soon as she was able.

Zeb Ritter had sure as hell put his sons to work in the fields and the barn, practically as soon as they could walk. Jud had hated every minute of every chore. He still remembered the burn of resentment in his belly, the desperate desire to get away.

The hay ended at a line of pine trees bordering the yard around the house—a white, two-story farmhouse, nearly a century old by the looks of it, with wide porches on all sides and a red tin roof shaded by pecan trees and live oaks. A branch of the driveway led directly to the house, where Miranda’s blue truck was parked, but Jud followed the curve around the tree line and headed toward the back of the farm.

Behind the house stood a good-sized barn, painted red to match the tin roof, with brown-fenced paddocks and pastures stretching into the distance. He vaguely remembered Miranda doing some barrel racing in the junior rodeos. Jud had hit the pro circuit as soon as they’d let him have his card, so he didn’t remember whether she’d actually won or not. His own winning streak had burned out so quickly, the memory was just a blur.

Beyond the pastures sat a log cabin with a stand of pines behind and a field in front planted with hundreds of silver-leafed shrubs. Cruz Martinez’s truck sat close to the side of the house. This must be the place.

Jud pulled in beside the Z71 and cut his engine. The country night surrounded him—a quiet, wintry darkness, unbroken by streetlights or the growl of machines, textured by the rustle of pine needles and grass blades as the wind passed by. He hadn’t experienced this kind of silence in…how many years?

His heart thudded against his ribs as he recognized the answer. Four. Most of four years had passed since he’d lain in the back of his truck looking up at the stars, listening to the spring sounds of frogs and crickets and whip-poor-wills.

Four years since he’d nearly ravished Miranda Wright in the back of that truck. The memory gripped him like a bad hangover, complete with regret for ever taking that first drink and, even worse, that first kiss. He usually played with women who knew the score, a category which definitely excluded Mayor Miranda.

But at least he’d stopped in time. She might have had her feelings hurt, but he hadn’t done anything unforgivable. He’d just been a stupid jerk.

“Damn.” Shaking his head, Jud got out of the truck and pulled his duffel from behind his seat.

As he reached the porch steps, Cruz Martinez opened the front door of the cabin. “Come in, make yourself at home.” He led the way into warmth and light and a room neater than any bachelor pad Jud had ever seen.

“Take the room at the end of the hall,” Martinez said, pointing down a dark passage. “There’s a bathroom right next door. More important—” he grinned as he heard Jud’s stomach rumble “—the kitchen is at the back of the house and there’s plenty of stuff for sandwiches in the fridge.”

“Sounds great.”

Grabbing a jacket, Martinez went back to the front door. “I’m going to check on the barn. Walk over after you eat and I’ll give you a tour. Or hit the sack, if you want. Just treat the place like your own.”

“Thanks. Hey,” Jud said. “What’s planted in the field out front? All those silver bushes?”

His host grinned. “That’s Miranda’s pet project. She’s been nursing those lavender plants for a couple of years now.”

“Lavender? For perfume?”

“She’s got all sorts of plans for marketing. I don’t understand most of them.” He winked at Jud. “I think it’s a female thing.”

“In other words, clear as mud.”

“Exactly.”

Left alone in the cabin, Jud set his bag down in the assigned bedroom, noting with approval the king-size bed. His four extra inches over six feet didn’t fit well in small spaces. He used the bathroom, washed his hands, then flipped back the shower curtain, wondering if he’d be taking showers on his knees.

What caught his eye, though, was a scrap of lavender lace draped over the towel bar at the opposite end of the tub from the water faucet. Jud reached out and caught the fabric between two fingers, pulling it off the bar. A bra, he realized, lace cups and satin straps with a small bow in the center.

“Well, well,” he said, his jaw tight. “No wonder Ms. Mayor was so upset to hear I was staying with Cruz Martinez.”

Resisting the urge to break something—Miranda Wright’s neck, for a start—Jud carefully put the garment back where he’d found it, flipped off the light and went to make himself something to eat.

AFTER AN AFTERNOON spent in skirts and dress shoes, the Wright women changed clothes as soon as they got home. Wearing jeans and a sweater, Nan came downstairs a few minutes later to find her daughter snuggled into the sofa in the living room, TV remote control in hand.

Miranda looked her over. “You’re planning to go out? Something wrong?” She wore her favorite sleepwear—a faded, stretched-out, long-sleeved T-shirt over flannel pajama pants decorated with penguins on skis. She’d scrunched her hair into a ponytail. Dusty, the golden Labrador retriever, lay in a contented butterscotch curl across Miranda’s feet.

Nan shook her head. “Nope. I thought I’d go and check on the horses, is all, look in on the moms-tobe.”

“I’ll come with you.” To Dusty’s distress, Miranda shifted her feet to the floor and started to get up.

“Don’t bother.” Nan pushed her back onto the couch. “I’ll just walk through. Be back in a few minutes.” She held her breath, expecting an argument.