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“That’s what I come to tell you. You don’t have to wait no more.”
“Damned right, I don’t. A while ago, the woman who works here?
??”
“Ain’t no woman works here.”
For some reason, the confirmation of what Lucas had already figured made him even angrier.
“Your boss’s woman, then,” he snapped. “She gave me the key to an old car she said was parked behind the stable but I didn’t…” Why was he explaining himself? “I want that key now.”
“You just said—”
“I know what I said,” Lucas growled. “Surely there’s a second key. I want it.”
“I come to tell you what I been told to tell you. You can come on down to Mr. McDonough’s office now.”
“You mean, he’s finally here?”
But he was talking to himself. The foreman was already shuffling down the hall.
He was half-tempted to go after the man, grab him by the collar and pin him against the wall—which only proved how out of control he’d let things get.
Instead he took a steadying breath.
What was that American saying about killing two birds with one stone? He could see McDonough, then demand the damned key to the damned car and say goodbye to this damned place.
He could hardly wait.
The office was tucked behind what Lucas assumed would be known as the front parlor in a house the age of this. It was a big room furnished in oak and leather, but what caught his attention were the prints and photographs framed and hung on the walls.
Horses. Colts. Paddocks and barns and stables. It took a minute to realize the pictures were of the ranch as it must have once been. Handsome, well-tended and prosperous.
McDonough had lied about the mare he claimed to have for sale. He’d somehow let this place tumble into ruin. But he had once run it properly and understood what it meant to be a horseman.
“Depressing as all get-out, isn’t it? Kind of a sad chronicle of what used to be, could have been…well, you get my drift.”
Lucas swung around. A man stood in the doorway, mouth curved in a smile that could only be categorized as nervous.
He damned well should have been nervous, Lucas thought coldly, taking in the figure of his host.
Aloysius McDonough was not at all what he’d expected.
He’d envisioned a tall man, whipcord thin and weather-hardened, wearing a dark suit, bolo tie and polished boots, maybe even a Stetson.
Obviously, he thought wryly, he’d seen one too many Hollywood Westerns on late-night TV during his days at Yale.
McDonough was short and pear-shaped, dressed in a pale gray suit and shiny wing-tips. His hair was arranged in an elaborate comb-over that emphasized his balding scalp. His face was florid and damp with sweat.
Lucas disliked him on sight.
And thought, immediately, of the obscenity of the black-haired rider warming the man’s bed.
Everything inside him tensed, so much so that when McDonough held out his hand, he could only stare at it. The man’s wary smile dipped and Lucas took a breath and forced himself to accept the extended hand, which was as soft and clammy as he’d known it would be.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Your Majesty.”
“Please,” Lucas said, smiling thinly. “I’m hardly anyone’s majesty.”
