Chapter Four
The Legacy main house came into picturesque view. Where Toby’d cut his teeth. As much as Rose wasn’t even close to his type—not that she was here because of him anyway—he didn’t want the car ride to end. Truck, dammit. Beast here is a truck, not a damned car or SUV.
“Wow,” Rose said.
He glanced over at her. “What?”
She shook her head. “It never fails to wow me. Your land is so vast, so gorgeous.” She inhaled, exhaled, and peeked in his side-view mirror again to keep track of her crew tailing them. “I’ve got a few newbies with me this go-around—as you noted. They’ve never seen something so magnificent, except for Hunter, Megan, and Howie, who’ve been coming since the beginning. I wonder if their jaws are on the floorboards.”
Howie? His jaw clenched thinking about that guy with the dreads, hippy pants, and Teva sandals. Sandals, for fuck’s sake! Toby hoped to God he had a good pair of boots and snake guards because everything out here bit, poked, or stung. And the panther shaman site down the long end of his canyon was a notoriously shaded hangout for diamondback rattlers.
“Do you ever tire of looking at that mountain?” she asked on a sigh.
Toby glanced at her again, noting her curls poking out of her bun endearingly, as he continued up the road toward his main house. Cerro Casas Grandes—which rose over Ghost Canyon, a dry arroyo cut by an ancient, Jurassic river—was magnificent, the flat, notched top reminding early Spanish settlers of pueblos, hence its name. panther shaman was hidden in the canyon holler.
“Nope,” he answered. “Gonna be hiking up it in about two more hours with a mess of summer-camp kids actually.”
She perked up at his mention of kids. Interesting. He would never tire of looking at that mountain; he just wished he didn’t feel resentment every time he looked at this massive spread. He’d wasted too much time chasing pipe dreams and running away from responsibility—in truth not chasing squat while running from Harold Dixon’s pressure to amount to the man he wished Toby would have been.
“And I ain’t the only one who loves it. For decades, we’ve had scholars knocking on our door, asking to bring research teams out here. Everything from ancient marine life to archaeologists studying those human relics and everything in between, until about the time the Spanish got here.” Toby had a lifetime of memories, lazy summer nights gazing out the back windows onto Cerro Casas Grandes’s dark shadow against the expanse of starlit heavens while his momma regaled him and his brothers with stories about it. Damn, but he couldn’t handle the memories of her voice and swallowed to tamp them down, adding, “But I have run from it a time or two.”
He drove around the circular driveway in front of the house his great-great-grandfather had built, made of limestone blocks, sitting upon the sprawling flatland overlooking the finger inlets into the canyon created by millions of years of erosion. Surprisingly, a hailstorm or twister had never knocked the monstrosity down. The rivets that capped the old, timbered second-floor joists formed a row of big Texas stars along the front exterior. The two-story porch was the only thing that had succumbed to a harsh storm over the years, but each time, it had been rebuilt. And over the wide front stairs hung an outdoor chandelier made of a wagon-wheel rim and antlers—good old-fashioned charm.
Affixed above the door was the original sign: DIXON CATTLE COMPANY, in bold, fancy lettering detailed with turn-of-the-century filigree. He was a lucky bastard to claim all of this as his lineage. All of it should have gone to Tyler as the oldest son—the one who deserved it more than any of them, or Travis, who might find the solemnity of living out here and the manual labor involved therapeutic after what he’d gone through in Afghanistan. But no, they’d both rejected it, dumping it on him.
“Come on in and set up. Don’t worry about tracking in muck. These floorboards have been collecting dirt off of shit-kickers for over a century.”
He parked his Bronco in the off-shooting driveway to the four-car separate garage, also built of limestone to match the house, and killed the ignition while Rose began zipping the thousands of pockets on her Swiss Army backpack. Goddamn, but she was like a walking outdoor catalog with her…were those Timberland boots? She shelled out for her duds.
He dug behind his seat for the rumpled plaid pearl-snap shirt that was now half-buried beneath his emergency kit—the one thing about his vehicle which was organized and prepared for any natural disaster—then shoved open his door. Time to get Dr. Rose’s desert virgins settled in so he could hop into the shower, guzzle more water, call the Junior Ranchers to grovel profusely for being a dumbass, and apply something that didn’t smell like a stale distillery to his underarms—and damn, but he needed to dust some Gold Bond onto his poor nuts from all this chafing. Poor Rose, stuck beside him the whole way.
He jumped down and came around to the other side to help her down. She was already shoving open the door of his rust bucket. He suspected she wasn’t the type of damsel to get spooked by a two-foot drop, but he’d still been raised right to some degree, and since she’d deprived him of the chance to help her up, he held out his hand to see her safely disembark.
“I’m fine. Got it,” she smiled, declining his offer, though he still braced his palm beneath her elbow. He hauled out her backpack and clipboard, handing them to her.
She looked around, then back at his Bronco. “You know, for a man who owns one of the richest properties in Texas, you sure do drive an ancient car.”
“Hey now, Miss Lion King. I know everything seems ancient to an archaeologist, but no one insults my truck,” he fired back, grinning smugly, anxious for her reciprocation. Because by now, he knew she’d deliver.
She coughed elaborately, “Car…” but flashed him a devious smile that made her cheeks dimple and her hazel-brown eyes glitter, then she started walking.
“Truck, woman,” he grinned, as he snapped the back of her thighs with his pearl snap like a linebacker in a locker room—
God almighty, had he just done that? Jeezus. If he looked at her, would she be shocked? Appalled? But he felt at ease around her yet also disoriented by her, and he’d hardly thought as he’d done it. Had anyone else seen? They all looked busy parking and getting out. Except for dear old Howie, who was glaring at him.
Oh yeah, Howie had seen. Toby already knew he didn’t like that guy. Howie had a history with Rose, one Toby couldn’t quite place, but he could smell it like a bloodhound.
He climbed the stairs two at a time, fighting his arms through the sleeves of the snap-up shirt. And dammit, but Rose’s face was splashed with heat, he’d noted. It was such a genuine look of surprise. Rose didn’t seem like some vestal virgin, but when was the last time a man had flirted with her? He fully anticipated retribution at some point for that as he fumbled to draw out his house key, if she was gracious enough to play it off instead of telling him off like he deserved.
“All right, everyone,” Rose began as the others assembled on the steps. “Mister Dixon says we can set up the lab in his living room. Try not to track a lot of dust around, though, and—” She turned back to him. “Show me where the vacuum is, and I’ll make sure to tidy up each day.”
He shrugged. “No need. I’ve got a housekeeper, besides.”
She returned to her crew. “All the same, guys. Be respectful. All right, lab setup. Howie, you know the protocol…”
Toby glanced over his shoulder at mention of Howie again while Rose continued doling out instructions. The smugness lifting the corner of Howie’s mouth as he glanced deliberately at Rose, then back at him, spoke of…knowledge. What the hell?
Like a lightning bolt, Toby knew Howie and Rose were involved. Or had been. To what extent, Toby wasn’t clear. Were they an item and Toby had just trespassed on Howie’s real estate? Prime real estate, Toby clarified, now that he’d had the unexpected pleasure of chatting her up with a hangover and not enough coffee.