Excerpts of Work

Love by Bequest
(Book 1 in the Burton Dale Brides series)

“The old man’s really done it this time.”

Scott Devlin wiped the drips from the brim of his Stetson and squinted through the drizzle at the sorry scene before him. Unfortunately, nothing changed or improved. Pulling up the collar of his jacket to keep the cold off his neck, he trudged a little further up the rutted muddy track towards Dear Dad’s legacy; the only thing of value

Patrick Devlin had ever given his son. A place of his own.

This was why he’d left a decent, steady ranching job in Texas and battled with turbulent planes, delayed trains and the unreliable Yorkshire bus system? A graveyard of rotting farm machinery, a miserable collection of ramshackle stone buildings and a bunch of waterlogged fields.

There was no sign of cattle in the fields either. Course, if they’d any sense, they’d have got out of the rain somewhere. Like he was fixing to do.

Damn.

He should have known better than to trust anything left him by the good-for-nothing drunk who’d deserted him and his mom. But he couldn’t deny his curiosity about the inheritance. He’d needed to see for himself what had made Patrick want to brush the Texas dust off his boots and head home to England.

What he’d seen so far wasn’t worth the cost of his plane ticket.

The warm glow of a brightly lit window beckoned him through the now heavily falling rain. At least there was electricity in this godforsaken corner of the world.

The stone façade of the old farmhouse, from the large rough-hewn stone blocks to the shiny slate roof tiles, was as grey as the surrounding landscape shrouded in mist and rain. It was like one of those houses in a horror movie.

The kind where you knew evil lurked.

Still, it looked solid enough and he’d be out of the worsening weather. The axe-murderers and prowling undead would have to wait for him to have a hot shower and fill his belly.

There was no doorbell, but to the right of the weathered front door was a shiny brass plate with what seemed to be a key stuck in it. Puzzled, he pressed and pulled with no luck. Eventually, disgusted, he turned the thing and a loud ring echoed inside.

Man, did everything have to be so different?

A light came on; its glow softened the stark atmosphere. Not real inviting, but not the Bates Motel either.

With dramatic timing, lightning flashed and thunder rolled overhead. Any minute now the scary music will start.

Scott grinned to himself. I’m quaking in my boots.

The rattle of keys came through the door, but it remained closed. After muffled swearing, a husky voice called out,

“Just a minute. Got to find the right one.”

The housekeeper didn’t sound like a spooky old crone who knifed people in the shower.

Eventually, he heard the lock give with a creak and a click, then the screech of a metal bolt being drawn back. The heavy door swung open.

His jaw dropped. His duffle bag and suitcase landed in a muddy puddle with a big splash.

The woman who opened the door was stunning. Gorgeous. If you had a thing for Morticia Addams.

It wasn’t the long, straight jet-black hair, the unusual grey-green cat-like eyes or the glistening red lipstick in an otherwise pale face, which startled him.

It was the vicious-looking pair of shears she wielded in her left hand.

* * *

What in the world was a cowboy doing on her doorstep?

Dreena Barry couldn’t help staring at the most masculine example of a man she’d ever seen. From the brim of his dark hat through the soaked denim of his jacket and snug-fitting jeans to the tips of his muddy boots, he was the image of a Texas cowboy - the kind they wrote books and made films about. Almost made a girl want to leave her home behind and go travelling.

Maybe he was one of those line-dancing fans who’d got lost on his way to the village hall. No wonder country music was doing so well, if he was an example of the kind of bloke you met.

“Can I help you?” She moved a little closer and was surprised to see the cowboy take a step back, raising his hands slightly. His deep blue eyes shifted warily.

“Uh … ma’am … I’m not dangerous, honest. I’m just lookin’ for Magpie Grange.” He tilted his head towards her left hand.

The slow, deep drawl was like butter oozing off a warm scone. She savoured the sound of it for a moment or two, before she realised what he was talking about. The shears. Oops. No wonder he seemed nervous.

“Sorry.” She grinned and put the shears back on the wooden shelf by the door. “I was expecting young Barney from the next farm over. His idea of a joke I think. I’d asked to borrow some scissors from his mum to cut my hair and he left me these.” She was waffling. She never waffled. “I’m sure you didn’t need to know all that.”

The cowboy’s face relaxed a little and he dropped his hands. Belatedly Dreena wondered if he carried a gun. But there didn’t seem to be one of those low-slung bullet-laden belts around his lean hips.

“Is this Magpie Grange?” The sexy voice interrupted her meandering thoughts. “They said in the village it was somewhere round here.”

Now she was confused.

“Yes, but we don’t do line-dancing here. Or B&B,” she added, in case that’s what he was after.

His smile was slow in coming, but when it did, it made her pulse do a toe tap and slide of its own.

“I’m not needing either of those, ma’am, though I am fixin’ to stay awhile.” He held out his hand. “The name’s Scott Devlin. I believe this here is my place.”

The last thing she’d been expecting was Patrick’s son.

A chill went through her, one that had nothing to do with the dreariness of the February evening. She’d been assured he wouldn’t come. Had banked on it.

Fine time for him to show up now. What was the saying - a day late and a dollar short? Patrick was dead. This Scott should have made the effort sooner if he was expecting to be welcomed like the prodigal son. And what made him think this was his place? If he even was Patrick’s son.

“How do I know you’re really Scott Devlin?” She ignored the proffered hand and peered at him through the misty glow of the overhead lamp, trying to spot a resemblance to the man she’d loved like a father. The man who’d rescued her.

Patrick had only had one picture of himself with his son and that was black and white. Could this be the serious little dark-haired boy all grown up?

That both men had deep blue eyes and a strong jaw line wasn’t enough. Where Patrick was short and stocky, this cowboy was tall and lean. From the muscles beneath his wet jacket and jeans, there was no doubting Scott was a genuine working cowboy. But was he the right cowboy?

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a navy blue booklet. His passport. Dreena took it off him and opened it in search of a photo.

“I’m not real sure my picture is going to help. Darned thing makes me look like a convict.”

His self-deprecating grin convinced her. That and the unmistakable dimple on his left cheek. No doubts – he was Patrick’s son. The realisation sent a trickle of ice down her spine. How was this going to affect her plans?

“You’d better come in.” Dreena didn’t bother to sound welcoming as she handed him his passport and stepped back from the door. “I don’t know what you’re expecting, but I’ve not been here long, so most of the stuff is in boxes. There’s a bit of furniture here and there, but not a lot.”

The cowboy picked up his case and duffel bag and stepped into the hallway. She shut the door behind him with a firm click. Dreena was pleased to see he took care to remove his muddy boots and leave them on the mat. She wasn’t quite so happy with the way her body reacted to his close proximity.

“I don’t know as I’m expecting a whole lot other than a roof over my head - somewhere to wash, eat and sleep ‘til I work out what’s what.”

“You’re planning to stay? Here?” Well of course he is, dodo. He didn’t come all the way from Nowhere, Texas for a cup of tea.

“Uh … yes, ma’am.” He looked at her suspiciously. “I sent a fax to that lawyer, Mr Watson, before I left. I was told y’all would be expecting me.”

“Well, I wasn’t.” She was going to have words with Arthur.

“You are the housekeeper, aren’t you?”

The irritation his question incited began to melt the chill she’d felt since learning his identity.

“No, I am not the housekeeper,” she said, enunciating each word carefully so there was no misunderstanding.

“I’m Dreena Barry. Patrick Devlin was my step-father and Magpie Grange is my place.”

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