Lone Star Refuge
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Mae Nunn
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Chapter One
STELLA JANE SCOUT slowly descended the stairs. She was going over the numbers again in her head, figuring on potential donors, and almost ran into her father who appeared at the bottom just as she reached it.
“Whoa there, Pretty! Raring to go to work?” He steadied himself against the door frame that led from the foot of the stairs into the dining room, which was rarely used. “I was just about to call you.”
“Mornin’, Pops.” She kissed his cheek. “What’s for breakfast?”
“Bacon and eggs. You need your protein this morning. You know, bacon and eggs stick with you.”
Stella suppressed a chuckle as she followed him into the kitchen. He was always cooking up things he thought would “stick with” her, with no regard whatsoever to their fat and cholesterol content.
She sat down at the breakfast table where they ate most meals, and laid her napkin across her lap. Buster poured coffee into the cup he’d already doctored with sugar and milk. As she sipped its rich smoothness, he set a plate in front of her with two fried eggs, three strips of bacon and a piece of whole wheat toast. Then, turning to the sound of a scratching noise on the porch, he went to the back door and let in two whirling dervishes of black-and-white.
“Mugsy! Mitzi!” Stella reached down to pet the Boston terriers that stood with their paws on her thigh. Their wiggling and wagging resulted in her napkin falling to the floor. Buster picked it up for her.
“Here you go, guys.” They followed Buster to a mat that held a stainless steel bowl full of water beside the refrigerator. Buster set down two bowls with equal portions of bacon and eggs in each one and the dogs started chowing down. Next, he made his own plate and sat down at the table across from Stella, slathering his toast in butter.
“What’s on your agenda today?”
“I’m going to meet with that feller who keeps pestering me about buying the north forty.” Buster focused his eyes intently on his toast.
“What? I thought you discontinued that ad.”
“I did, too, but apparently it still comes up on that stinkin’ internet. “Least that’s where he said he got our information.”
“Well, why didn’t you just tell him it’s not for sale?” The heat rose in her neck.
“I want to hear what he has to say. He’s a polo player, so he’s bound to have money, and if he wants that forty acres bad enough, well, it might help out with your new venture.”
Stella snorted. “A polo player? From Texas?” She rolled her eyes. “Pops, I don’t need help. Not that way, anyway. I know we’re strapped and I know it’s my fault—”
“Now, you just wait right there a minute. Our financial troubles are not your fault.” He reached across the table for her hand. “Don’t you ever say it’s your fault, Pretty.”
“Well, I am the one who persuaded you to quit the rodeo after Mom died, but I won’t apologize for it. You’re the only parent I’ve got left. We can blame it on the economy or whatever, but what it comes down to is that my riding school has drained you financially.”
Buster couldn’t argue with that.
“But I’m about to make that up to you. Just a little more time, a few more donors, and we’ll be up and running.” Stella placed her hand over his. The gnarled knuckles were rough beneath her palm. “You know I’m not in this to get rich, by any means. But I do hope we’ll be solvent again. The last thing I want is for you to have to sell part of this place. It’s our last connection to Moma.”
Stella saw a muscle twitch in her father’s jaw, even though it was covered with a shaggy salt-and-pepper beard. His bushy eyebrows furrowed into a near-scowl.
“Well, I’ll keep that under consideration, but I’m not canceling the meeting. He’ll be here in a few minutes.”
Buster rose, taking his plate to the sink. He tucked his shirt into his jeans as he wobbled bowlegged across the kitchen and back through the dining room. He paused in the foyer to grab his workaday Panama hat off the rack. Then he turned around and winked at her.
“Stubborn ox!” Stella called, clearing the rest of the table.
* * *
JOINER TEMPLE ROLLED OVER in the four-poster king-size bed and grabbed his phone off the rusted oil barrel Gillian, his brother Hunt’s wife, had rescued from a junkyard and reimagined as a nightstand for one of the rooms in her five-star resort, Temple Territory. Hunt and Gillian had offered him the “Mason-Dixon” suite, named after his notorious grandfather. They insisted on treating him to the lap of luxury in the thirty-eight-room mansion that was the heart of the resort until he found a place of his own to rent in Kilgore.
That task had been harder than he hoped it would be, but he had a meeting today with an old rodeo guy named Buster Scout. If Joiner could get Buster to agree to sell part of his 450-acre ranch for an affordable price, it might be the best option yet for Joiner to start over.
The clock on his phone read 7:00 a.m. He’d better get a move on or he was going to be late.
Joiner jumped out of bed and showered quickly in the shale-tiled shower Gillian had designed. He pulled on jeans, a clean white T-shirt and ran a brush through his dark, wavy hair. Forgoing a shave, which would take too long, he hoped a little stubble wouldn’t make a bad impression with Buster. Then he stepped into his favorite Justin boots, picked up his Stetson and, locking the door behind him, hurried down the hall and out the door.
His brother Hunt was coming up the steps of the mansion as Joiner was going down.
“Morning, bro!” Hunt flashed him the smile that had made him famous as the Cowboy Chef. “Did you have breakfast?”
“No time. I’ve got to go see about that forty acres. Supposed to be there at eight o’clock.”
“I can have someone feed Pistol for you.”
“I’ve got it.” Joiner reached out his fist and Hunt bumped it with his. “See you later.”
Joiner crossed the lawn, passing the guesthouse where Hunt and Gillian were staying while their new lodge, which would be their personal home, was under construction by the lake at the rear of the property. He headed to the lavishly remodeled barn where Pistol was boarded. Pistol looked up immediately when Joiner entered, as if he’d been waiting for him.
Man, he loved this horse. A carbon-black Argentine Thoroughbred, Pistol was the one dream Joiner had not left behind with the rest of his polo career. He filled a bucket with oats and brushed the horse till his coat shone in the soft morning light that filtered through the barn windows.
“I’ve got to go, but when I get back we’ll go for a ride.”
Pistol nuzzled him and Joiner rubbed the white star that blazed across the horse’s forehead. “Hopefully I’ll have us both a place where we can finally settle down.” Although, admittedly, Joiner didn’t know if he’d ever be happy settling down...
* * *
THE SILVER TRUCK kicked up so much dust that Buster could see it coming more than a mile down the driveway. He finished milking Violet and Minnie, the two goats, and took the pails inside for Stella to strain. He was already gathering the eggs when the truck came to a stop under Stella’s old basketball hoop. The truck wasn’t that new and wasn’t that shiny. A man got out and Buster sized him up as he strode toward the front door of the house. He was a good size, broad-shouldered, and what Buster’s mother would have described as too pretty to be a boy.
“Hey there!”
Joiner started at the sound of Buster’s voice from the chicken coop across the yard. He turned around.
“Mr. Scout?”
Buster ceremoniously wiped chicken poop off his hand and extended it toward Joiner. The young man hesitated only an instant before reaching out to take it. There was something like a dare in his violet eyes.
“Ha-ha! Gotcha!” Buster laughed, withdrawing his hand, and the young man laughed, too.
“You got me.”
“It’s nice to make your acquaintance, Mr. Temple.”
It was immediately obvious to Buster that this Temple boy was very different from Stella. And it might be nice for both of them to have him around...
* * *
“CALL ME JOINER. PLEASE.” He followed Buster around behind the house, where the older man set the pail of eggs down on the porch, and then pumped water from an old-fashioned spicket in order to wash his hands.
“Let’s sit up here on the porch. Do you like coffee?”
“Sure, thanks.” Joiner took a seat in one of the wooden rockers while Buster walked past him and into the house. He noticed that in the distance there was a ratty-looking RV parked under some trees.
Buster came back with two coffee mugs and two Boston terriers, who ran to surround his rocker. Joiner reached down to return their affection.
“I hope you like it black.”
Joiner nodded, although he preferred a little cream.
“Good. I never can stand a man who doctors his coffee. My daughter takes sugar and cream—all of that girly stuff. But a man should drink black coffee.” Buster plopped down in the other rocker. “It puts hair on your chest.”
Joiner had all of the hair he needed but he took a sip anyhow. The coffee tasted like tar. “Thanks,” he sputtered.
“This is Mugsy.” Buster pointed to the bigger of the two dogs. Mugsy was twenty-five pounds of solid muscle and all black except for his three-quarter-moon white face. Brown eyes sparkled over a smashed-in nose. The mutt grinned and displayed an under bite and crooked teeth. Joiner could almost imagine him smoking a cigar.
“And this little girl right here is Mitzi.” Buster’s voice crooned as if he was talking to a baby. She turned over by his feet and he reached down to rub her tummy, which was none too small, even though she was more petite than Mugsy. Mitzi had more of a terrier’s nose, and lots more white fur to go with the black. It was speckled with what looked like black freckles. Joiner immediately took to them both.
“So you’re interested in my north forty acres. What do you want it for?”
“Well, sir, I’m searching for a place to build a little horse-breeding operation. Nothing large-scale, but enough to get me by.”
“Aren’t you some kind of polo player?”
“I was. Started in college, and then I was drafted by a European team. I had some fun over there, but the truth is, I just can’t afford to make polo a career.” Joiner ran a hand through his hair. “I poured most of my inheritance into it before I figured that out. When people call polo ‘the sport of kings’ that’s because only kings have enough money to play it seriously.”
Buster squinted at Joiner, who hoped he was making some sense to the older man.
“How’d a Texas cowboy end up playing that sissy kind of sport, anyway, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Joiner did mind. But he was used to it. Being a polo player was about as unconventional as a Texas cowboy could get. Still, the older man’s prejudices were starting to get on his nerves.
“It’s very competitive, and it requires a lot of skill of both the rider and the horse.” He was blunt.
“Well, don’t get your panties in a wad. I didn’t mean nothing. I’m just trying to understand it, that’s all.” Buster stroked his beard. “I used to rodeo. Sunk every dime I had into it, and spent all my time on the road. I loved it, but I have to admit I missed a lot of my daughter’s growing-up years and I regret that. It may be a good thing you’ve got the road out of your system before you settle down and have a family.”
Joiner blushed. “I have no plans for that, Mr. Scout.”
“Never knew many cowboys who did.”
The back door creaked open and a stunning young woman in jeans, a gingham shirt and red cowboy boots stomped through it. Some kind of silver necklace glinted on her neck when she bent to pick up the pail of eggs Buster had set on the steps. She started toward the door again, but Buster stopped her.
“Hey, Pretty, come here. I want you to meet Mr. Joiner Temple.”
The girl’s brown eyes looked Joiner up and down. The back of his neck prickled. Still, to be polite, he stood and offered her his hand. When she took it, her handshake was surprisingly firm.
“Nice to meet you,” she said, sounding as if it really wasn’t.
“You, too, Miss Scout.”
“It’s Stella.”
“Her name means star,” Buster explained. His chest puffed out and he gave her a little pat on the back.
Stella the Pretty Star tossed her short gold hair, turned on the heel of her boot and headed into the house, letting the screen door slam behind her.
