who better to do this than the community relations guy for Traub Oil Montana?
Jackson felt good about this constructive method of going about it. He was turning over a new leaf—a diplomatic one.
A helpful one.
He tried to mellow the memory of DJ’s wounded expression that kept niggling at him as he walked into the Hitching Post, spying Woody at the bar nursing a brew as the silent jukebox sat sentry in the corner.
Jackson approached the man, a fortyish refugee from Vegas. He still carried some of that old-school air about him in his creased brown trousers and a tan long-sleeved silk shirt that had seen better days.
When he saw Jackson, he raised his mug.
“Evening, Traub,” he said.
Jackson kept on his coat and declined to order a drink when the bartender approached. Then he greeted Woody right back.
The other man went back to his beer, and that struck Jackson as just being wrong. Here the manager was, part of a scheme to undermine DJ, and he didn’t seem to mind at all. It even occurred to Jackson that perhaps Woody had only made a habit of grabbing a drink at the Hitching Post because he’d been making LipSmackin’ deliveries all this time.
“I heard about your new contract with the Hitching Post,” Jackson said in a civil enough manner. “I suppose congratulations are in order.”
Woody froze for the briefest second, then muttered a thanks, but didn’t meet Jackson’s gaze.
That didn’t sit well, either. Jackson didn’t like weasels. Didn’t like dishonesty on any level.
“It’s only unfortunate,” he said, doing a fine job of keeping himself in check in spite of his rising dander, “that your business has to be at the expense of my family’s.”
“It’s a cutthroat world out there, Traub. You’re a professional man. You know how things are.”
“Sure, but as far as memory serves, I never did draw blood from anyone. No one in my family has.”
Woody surveyed Jackson, his gaze bleary. “Aren’t you the honorable bunch.”
Drunk. And just this side of ornery.
Had someone had a bad day?
If Woody hadn’t sounded so mocking—as if he’d pulled one over on DJ—and if Jackson hadn’t been so swayed by his cousin’s genuine sense of concern about his business, he might’ve let Woody’s attitude slide.
Woody stood away from the bar and walked off, and Jackson was about to let him go for the time being.
That is, until Woody looked over his shoulder and bellowed, “Tell DJ that he shouldn’t be afraid of a little healthy competition. Tell him to just man up, for God’s sake.”
Everyone in the bar had gone still, turning to Jackson to see if he was going to stand up for DJ.
Still thinking he could settle this constructively, Jackson followed Woody outside to the boardwalk, near the hitching post that had given the tavern its name.
“Listen, here, Woody,” he said. “There’s no need to—”
“You’re just itching for a fight, aren’t you?” the man said, slurring even more.
“No, thank you. But—”
The punch came out of nowhere—a slam of numb pain that blasted into Jackson’s jaw.
Instinctively, he punched back, connecting with Woody’s eye, sending the man to his rear.
Jackson’s knuckles throbbed and he shook them out, sighing. Goddamn it. And he wasn’t cursing from the emerging pain in his jaw or hand, either.
“Hellfire,” Jackson said. If his dad had been around to see this, he’d be shamed, all right. Awfully shamed. “Now why’d you have to make me go and do that, Woody?”
Woody put a hand over his eye, groaning as Jackson left him, knowing that there would be hell to pay, not only with his conscience, but with his family, too.
Chapter Three
“So how does it feel to be the scourge of Thunder Canyon?” asked Jason Traub on the other end of the cell phone line.
Jackson moved the phone to his other ear while grabbing a coffee from the Town Square cart. The late-morning air nipped his skin as he put a tip in the server’s jar, nodded at the man’s thank-you, then strolled away, working his sore jaw before answering.
“Being a scourge here doesn’t feel any different than being one anywhere else,” he said to his twin, who’d called him from Texas after hearing about last night’s little scuffle with Woody Paulson.
“You’re just damn lucky the man didn’t go to the cops. That’s all Traub Oil Industries would need, Jackson.”
“I know.” He’d been beating himself up about it, and he was willing to take his own punches. He’d already gotten a few verbal ones from Ethan when he’d shown up in the office early this morning as well. When his older brother had inspected Jackson’s jaw, not even finding a bruise, he’d said that Jackson could’ve used some black and blue to remind him of his misstep.
“Needless to say,” Jackson told Jason, “last night wasn’t my finest moment. But, believe me, it’s not gonna happen again.”
“Isn’t that what you said after Corey’s wedding?”
Duly chastised, Jackson wandered to the edge of Town Square, to where a wrought-iron bench waited under an autumn-leafed oak. Around him stood Old West storefronts, comfortable and weathered.
Maybe it was the sight of those old buildings that made Jackson say, “I swear, Jason—I’m making a new start here.”
“Beginning when?”
“Now.” It was a vow, and he’d never meant anything more in his life.
He really had been fortunate that Woody Paulson hadn’t made a bigger deal out of last night. Then again, the other man had thrown the first punch, so it wasn’t as if he was innocent in all of it.
But that was no excuse.
Jason wished Jackson the best of luck and signed off, back to his own duties in the Midland offices. Back to his own better-brother-than-Jackson life.
After stuffing his phone into his coat pocket, Jackson took a drink of the black, bracing coffee. He peered farther down the street, knowing just what he would find.
Solace of a sort.
The bank where Laila was working right at this moment.
He smiled, picturing her—blond, blue-eyed, beautiful Laila—and the world seemed right for a moment.
Then again, that was how it always was with him. Women made him feel better, that’s all there was to it. And Laila wasn’t any different than the rest.
On a whim, he accessed his phone again, dialing what he knew to be her cell number. He’d charmed it out of a friend of a friend of hers after neglecting to have asked her outright for it the other night.
What fun would that have been? The chase was always the best part.
Her phone rang, and when she answered with a curious “Hello?” his heart gave a surprising flip.
Then he reminded himself, No different than the rest, and went on.
“Morning, sunshine,” he said, taking the chance that she would recognize his voice, even though his number wouldn’t have been identified on her phone screen.
When she didn’t answer right away, he wondered if he’d been wrong about her remembering him. Laila Cates probably