Love Under Two Mavericks by Cara Covington (best e reader for manga txt) 📗

a father and life situation like the one he had lived happening in today’s world? Hell, there’d be all sorts of folks lined up to help him.

Or maybe not. What had happened when he’d been a kid, with his old man being an abusive son of a bitch and his mother a weak-willed woman, none of that was his fault. And to her credit, his mother had grown a bit of a backbone when the old man was finally out of their lives. She’d cleaned up her act and had been the best mother she’d been capable of being.

He sat and thought about that for a good, long while. Loraine Gowan had worked hard, she’d held two jobs, and when he’d been a senior in high school, he’d taken on a job at the grocery close to their home. She didn’t demand his money, but he’d given her some anyway.

She’d never spoken in words to him about how he should live his life, but by her actions—her own example and the firm discipline when he crossed the line—she’d taught him plenty.

He’d gotten work with an older real estate agent and had more or less been his assistant until he’d learned enough to pass the accreditation courses. Then he’d taken over his mentor’s business, and while he would never be rich, he owned his own home, and he’d been able to make his mother’s last couple of years more comfortable as the cancer had taken her.

All those thoughts circled in his brain as he redirected his attention to the piece of paper on his desk.

He had an hour before it was time to head home for the night. It had been a good day—one sale had closed, and he’d submitted an offer on behalf of another client. No, his business would never make him rich. Did he even want to be rich?

He directed his attention back down to the calculations he’d made based on the information he’d gleaned off the internet.

It hadn’t been difficult to discover some basic historical information. There had indeed been a train robbery near Waco in 1880. A shipment of gold coins had been sent from Philadelphia to Waco. At some point between Fort Worth and Waco, the gold, valued at over two hundred thousand dollars at the time, had gone missing. No trace of the lost gold had ever been uncovered. The twenty-dollar gold coins weren’t remarkable in the day. There were no markings to distinguish these coins from any other.

It had also not been too difficult to discover that his great-great grandfather, also named Devlin Gowan, had been in the vicinity, along with an Ezra Powell, and that both men had been arrested in Waco by the Texas Rangers, on a wanted poster from Missouri.

Looks like the old man is telling the truth—at least as far as he knows it. Was it really possible that somewhere, on Michaela Powell’s property, a fucking fortune in gold was buried?

Nearly fifteen million dollars. That’s what those coins would be worth, just in the value of the gold, alone. In the 1880s, gold was just over twenty dollars an ounce. Today? Hell, it was worth more than fourteen hundred dollars an ounce.

Talk about inflation.

Terry shoved back from his chair. He let his gaze sweep his modest office, set in a modest mall in the ever-growing city of Waco. The day was waning, and he had to think about getting home. He wanted his father gone. He wanted this entire last couple of months to be entirely re-written.

His thoughts spun back to his mother. One of her oft said maxims filled his mind. Terry exhaled. “There are no do-overs in life. So, bind your wounds and move on.”

Fifteen million dollars.

It was a lot of money—more than he’d be able to spend in his lifetime. He’d never have to hustle another sale, worry about another bill, or take antacids thinking about his retirement fund, which wasn’t, by anyone’s measure, thriving. Adequate, maybe, if he worked until seventy. But not thriving. He needed to clear his head.

“Put it in the fuck-it bucket.” His own words startled him. But the current saying was apt for this moment. He wasn’t finished thinking on the situation, but he could think wherever he was.

His cell phone rang. Terry looked at his own landline number staring back at him. No sense in letting it go to voice mail. His father would just rip him a new one when he got home.

“Hey, Dad. I’m just finishing for the day.”

“I’m hungry. Can you bring home a pizza? Or how about burgers? I love them burgers you brought home last week. And fries.”

“Yeah, I can do that.” It would be a lot easier than cooking for his fuss-ass father.

“Good. And don’t drive like a fucking old lady. I want those fries hot.”

Terry might have risen to the bait, but his father hung up before he had the chance. He closed his eyes and took one moment to just wish there could be a do-over, just this once.

Then he exited his office, locked the door behind him, and headed off for burgers and fries and a rational decision about a totally irrational situation.

* * * *

Michaela set her tray on the bar and rattled off her drink orders to Laci Benedict. As Saturday evenings went, this was a good one. Busy, but not overly so.

She’d been back at work for a week, and the next day—Sunday—was a day off for her. In the morning, a group of people was coming over to paint the house and make a list of some simple repairs needed for the barn. Then, for the evening, she and her guys were going to Laci, Trace, and Lucas’s house for supper. Michaela was looking forward to it. She was especially looking forward to cuddling Randy’s sweet little niece, Zoe Diane. And then on Wednesday, her next day off, another crew of friends would be arriving to begin the conversion of her dad’s old bedroom and the