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I can tell Willow’s overwhelmed by all the people in the room, and though I want to tell her none of them would have it any other way—that’s how we roll in Dallas when someone’s in need—I hold my tongue.
This whole fucked up escapade made me take a hard look at my life, at everything I’ve lost, and might like to recapture again.
Someday.
That thought lingers in my gut as I glance at the women in the room. All wives and mothers now happily married to my best friends. Men I appreciate and feel damn proud to have standing by my side in any conflict, especially this one.
After arriving home from the bar last night, I talked to Faulk. We mapped out the plan we’ll be sharing with everyone this morning.
“We’re all here and caffeinated, Grady,” Faulk says, nudging my side as he takes a loud slurp of coffee. “Go ahead.”
The room grows quiet.
I look at Willow for the briefest moment, wondering when I’ll ever be ready to let love into my life again.
Real love.
Lasting love.
Sweet and tender and intense-as-hell passion.
Watching her give the girls those plaques this morning and seeing their reactions made me wish the answer was now.
And a deep, aching part of me wishes it was with her.
Taking a deep breath, I give her a nod and start slowly.
“Well, as you all know, there’s a big-ass tiger in my barn who’d be dead if it wasn’t for Willow Macklin. The Exotic Plains Rescue in Minot is bad news and it’s been confirmed—” I pause, glancing at Drake. “The people who own the place have sent employees, goons, whatever you want to call them, to Dallas to investigate the tiger sighting that went viral on Facebook. They’re trying to beat the Feds here, who could come swarming in any time, which means getting Bruce out of here is gonna be tight. But we need to move like lightning because once the FBI follows up on Exotic Plains for their black-market dealings, having an illegal tiger in my barn means very bad shit for me, my girls, and the town.”
Willow frowns at me. I wish I’d given her the crib notes before my big briefing. I could’ve last night, but I knew where that would lead.
Either her slapping me across the face or another romp in the basement, or hell, maybe both.
“So, tomorrow morning, we’re gonna have a convoy of half a dozen trucks and trailers leaving the area. Only one will have the tiger in the trailer; the rest will be decoys. Tobin and a couple other folks have generously decided to help with the diversion...”
I pause, looking at Ridge’s ice-cold butler, who nods. Tobin gives me a rare smirk, pushing his glasses up his aquiline nose.
Normally, I’d laugh. This guy is a human robot, and I think he’s actually having fun for once.
“Whoever’s looking to follow,” I continue, “or possibly trying to intercept the tiger, is going to have a hard time finding the right one. After all those trailers leave, the one that belongs to Exotic Plains will be delivered at the airstrip they use to transfer and sell exotics.”
“Yep, the FBI has the GPS coordinates for that runway,” Faulk says, holding up his phone. “And I just got confirmation they’ll be arriving both there and in Minot sometime tomorrow.”
I nod.
“That just about covers it,” I say, clapping my hands together for dismissal.
For the next few hours, we break up into small groups, mapping out routes that our decoys will take north, south, east, and west.
A couple will take off a few hours ahead at dawn and go through Montana and South Dakota, all the way to the Wyoming state line. The others will only drive an hour or so from town before turning around and doing it again.
Calls get made to more folks we can trust with trucks and trailers, using the recent rodeo and a stolen bull as a cover story. Joyce donates six more decoys herself, with her ranch hands driving them.
I’m thankful as hell I recruited Faulk last year to help scope out her cheating husband and bust his lying ass. What goes around comes around.
Only the folks gathered here right now know the entire truth. The others are just that willing to help with few questions.
That’s the kind of place Dallas is, small-town heart and soul, and one more reason why I’m proud to call it home.
Shortly before noon, an old red car comes racing up the driveway, kicking up plumes of dust.
The late seventies, two-door Chevy Nova—complete with spoiler and mag wheels—looks like it’s in mint shape, only driven by a little old lady. And I know which little old lady as I glance at Tory Faulkner.
“Did you tell Granny Coffey you were here?”
“I, uh...I called her about an hour ago,” Tory says sheepishly. “Sorry, Grady. I didn’t tell her what we’re doing, just that there’s a crowd of us out here needing lunch. You know Granny—if there’s an army to be fed, she wants to be the cook.”
