Bear Pause (BBW / Bear Shifter Romance): A Billionaire Oil Bearons Romance (Bear Fursuits Book 6) Read online

  “Oh.” The brothers shared a moment of silent communication as Brandon absorbed that fact. Steve assumed that his brother was thinking, as he was, of how far that much money would go in Williamsville, Idaho. “So what do you have to do to get it, Steve?” Static in the feed almost covered his quiet question.

  “Not much. Supply a little DNA, and hand over my fucking self-respect.”

  Brandon grimaced. “What are you going to do?”

  Steve took a deep breath and when he spoke his voice was back to normal. “Check them out. The Sarkanys have given me some time off to go out to Colorado. In a couple weeks, I’ll go look the Bascoms over. I’ll see if I want to call them cousins or not, before I commit myself.”

  “What’s wrong with them?” Brandon asked. “I mean, your gripe would be with the dead guy, right? And the dude’s gone. The rest of the family might not even know about you. They might be okay. You could just take the money.” His voice trailed off.

  Steve shook his head. “Nope. I think I’m going to have to take back the Bascom name to get the money.”

  “Shit. But they might be okay.”

  “Maybe,” Steve allowed. “As near as I can make out, none of them know Kenneth had a kid. But, for my tastes, those Bascoms all have too damn much money and not enough character. I don’t know that I want to call them kin.”

  “How do you mean?” Brandon asked.

  “Too many women. I swear to god, they’re all a bunch of fucking tomcats. You never saw the like. It doesn’t sit right with me. Weak in one way, weak in all.” Steve recited their grandfather’s favorite proverb.

  Another look of perfect understanding passed between the brothers.

  “You do what you gotta do, bro. Listen, my time’s up. Gotta make way for the next guy,” Brandon said.

  Steve nodded. “Keep alert, stay alive, Corporal,” he ordered as he logged out.

  * * *

  “I had a visit from Piper this afternoon,” Laura announced at supper.

  The ranch house dining room was streaked with the last rays of the March sun. It lit up the massive table and sideboards that Clive Bascom had thought cemented his position as the wealthiest rancher in Colorado.

  Laura and her father were sitting across from each other on the long sides of the mahogany table. These were the chairs they had occupied when Granddaddy Clive had been alive and sitting at the head of the table. Neither one wanted to sit in the old man’s chair. And this way they could talk more easily.

  Freddie Bascom sighed. He had changed out of his work clothes and had a shave and shower. But even in a pressed shirt and bolo tie, he looked like the rough and tumble bullrider he had been in his youth – all big shoulders and bulky muscle.

  His vivid blue eyes were troubled, but his voice was amused when he replied. “Didn’t even think she remembered where the Double B is. What did the kid want?”

  “To tell me I worked for her.”

  Freddie blinked and then he snorted once. “Not even Piper could be that stupid, Lauralee. How did she get that idea lodged in her fool head?”

  “She said her lawyer told her so. And that the stud was part of the deal.”

  “She heard what she wanted to hear, Lauralee.” Freddie stopped eating to talk. “We went over and over it with Trevor Carmichael. You have a life interest in the ranch, with reversion to Piper and Nolan Belington only if you don’t marry and have a kid before you’re thirty-five. They have an interest, but not in the stud. In no sense do you work for those two.”

  “I know I don’t. Which is good. Because what they know about ranching or breeding horses would fit into a thimble and rattle. But, I tell you what, Daddy, I will not spend the rest of my life answering to trustees either. Which is what Granddaddy’s will comes to. I’ll sell the stud first – or move it.”

  “Now don’t go getting all hot and bothered, Laura honey,” Freddie advised. “I know you were hoping to get that clause set aside, but you still have time to get wed and have a baby before you turn thirty-five.” His voice was hopeful.

  “Do I? I seem to have already wasted sixteen of my thirty-four months.”

  Freddie chewed reflectively for a bit. “Eighteen months is still plenty of time.”

  Laura shrugged. She focused on her plate and for a few minutes there was silence in the dining room. The sun slipped behind the foothills and the room dimmed. Laura touched the button beside her foot and Teresita came in and switched on the chandelier. Soft light gleamed.

  Thank you,” Laura murmured. Teresita refilled their water glasses and went back to the kitchen.

  “I should have listened to Trevor,” she said. “But was so mad after I found out what was in Clive’s will that I flew off the handle. And now I’m running out of time.”

  “I know, pet.” Freddie shook his head. “But that’s water under the bridge.”

  As if he hadn’t spoken, Laura continued, “When Trev told me not to bother challenging a will that Edgar Thompson had drawn, I should have gone on one of those singles cruises instead of going to court. Would have cost less too.”

  “Your challenge worked out okay for Cal and Pat,” Freddie reminded her. “Edgar Thompson only agreed to striking out that clause about heirs having to quit the military, because you dropped your challenge. That’s not nothing.”

  “I was glad to do Cal and Pat a favor. But I don’t know why it took so long for me to come to my senses.”

  Freddie nodded and helped himself to mashed potatoes. “Nobody ever got rich trying to get the best of Clive Bascom,” he said. “Or Edgar Thompson.”

  Laura laughed derisively. “Don’t I know it. Now I only have a couple months left to find myself a husband, if I’m going to have a baby before my thirty-fifth birthday. Clive must have been senile when he put that clause in.”

  “Edgar Thompson says not. And he’s got three psychiatrists to back him up,” Freddie drawled. He chased the last of his peas with his fork. “Clive was just up to his usual tricks. He knew damn well that what he was putting in his will was downright deceitful.”

  “He promised me that he would transfer the ranch to me if I managed it for him,” Laura said bitterly. “Ever since I got out of college I’ve been doing just that.”

  “He always meant Luther to have it,” Freddie said, as he had said many times since Clive’s will was read.

  Teresita came back into the dining room and began to clear the platters away. Freddie and Laura began to confer about the mares who were due to foal that week. But as soon as the young woman had put slices of cherry pie in front of them and left, they went back to Laura’s dilemma as they did most nights. Not that the house staff didn’t know all about the inequities of Clive’s will, but there was such a thing as discretion.

  “Luther had been dead for over five years when Clive wrote that will. And he never wanted to run the ranch.” It was old ground, but Laura still had a hard time believing how thoroughly Clive had deceived her.

  “All you need to do to get full control of the Double B is to get married and have a baby.” Freddie’s weather-beaten face creased into a real grin that made his blue eyes sparkle. “I’m not saying Clive’s will isn’t a betrayal, Lauralee,” he said gruffly. “It sure enough is. I know he flat out promised you the ranch. But Clive wasn’t the only one who would like to see you happily married with a couple of kids. I’m ready to be a grandpa. And your mama would have wanted you to have a family too.”

  “Chance would be a fine thing.”

  “Any man that got you would be a lucky fellow,” Freddie said staunchly.

  “I think you’re a touch biased, Daddy.”

  “Nah.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Steve Holden parked outside the only coffee shop in Success, Colorado. He removed his black helmet with its silver badge of two crossed arrows over a sword and ran a hand over his damp head. The freezing breeze tried and failed to ruffle his close-cropped hair. It was April, but apparently winter hadn’t given up on Colorado yet. Fres
h snow had been piled on three sides of the little parking lot.

  He snapped the strap of his helmet into the lock on the back of the cycle, and took the three concrete steps in one stride. He unzipped his black leather jacket as the warmth of the diner blasted him in the face. At a cluster of tables in the corner, half a dozen grizzled ancients sat chinning over thick white coffee mugs. They looked up as Steve entered and greeted him with squints and a pause in their chatter. He acknowledged them with a single, respectful nod.

  The booths were empty and so were the red stools at the counter. Steve sat down in the middle of the row and looked at the selection of pies circling in the clear case at the end of the Formica counter. Six different kinds. None cut. That suggested the proprietors were expecting lots more customers. If he sat tight, he would hear all the gossip he needed to begin his investigation.

  “Coffee, please,” he said to the middle-aged woman in the pink uniform. Wordlessly, she poured him a mug and plunked down a handful of creamers. “Thanks.” He glanced at her name tag. “Lily. And a piece of pie. What do you recommend?”

  “They’re all homemade.” Her tired eyes scrutinized his face and came to some decision. They joined the small smile that curved her mouth. “Apple, butterscotch, blueberry, rhubarb, chocolate and banana cream.” She rattled them off. Her eyes went to Steve’s jacket. “You passing through?” she asked.

  “Unless I can find a job,” he replied casually. He ignored the creamers and drained his coffee mug.

  Lily’s painted-on eyebrows lifted. She refilled the mug. “Pie?” she prompted.

  “Butterscotch, please.”

  The door opened, bringing a gust of icy air. Steve didn’t turn around. In the mirrored backsplash of the service counter, he watched two bowlegged men enter. The new customers were regulars who were greeted with pleasantries by the crowd at the table. Their cowboy boots thumped on the linoleum tiles of the diner and chairs scraped as they joined their friends. In the mirror they looked indistinguishable. Blue jeans, dark parkas, and heavy leather gloves. Stetsons they removed. They looked just like the men they were joining. Normal for cattle country.

  The buzz of conversation started again, but Steve made no real attempt to listen. He concentrated on enjoying his pie. It was good. Almost as good as his mom’s. Although he was pretty certain Mom made her filling from a package. A farm wife didn’t have time to stand and stir a potful of sugar until it caramelized and then add it to custard built from scratch. Not like Sarkany’s pastry chef. Crust wasn’t as flaky as hers, but it was pretty good. Better than Army issue anyway. He had stopped comparing food to the meals he had eaten as Sarkany’s personal bodyguard. He wondered absently when he would stop comparing all meals to those he had eaten in the service.

  Nothing but crumbs remained on his plate when someone plunked down on the stool beside his. Steve had heard his boots on the linoleum and watched him in the mirror, so he wasn’t surprised. He swiveled with his stool, nodded courteously and waited for the old man to speak.

  “Howdy,” the man said in the overly loud voice of the hard of hearing.

  “Good morning, sir,” Steve returned. His seatmate was one of the original group. He was wearing a green and blue plaid western shirt and a heavy down vest. His age-spotted hands looked swollen and arthritic, but his faded eyes were sharp and watchful in his lined face.

  “Heard you say you was looking for work. That right?” the older man asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Steve said.

  “Hmm. You know anything about cattle or horses?”

  “Some. I grew up on a farm. We raised Herefords and kept a few cow ponies.”

  “Double B is about the largest outfit around here. The Bascoms always got a job for a veteran. Least ways, old Clive did, and it don’t seem Miss Laura is any different. Always supposing you are one.” He made it a question.

  Steve nodded. “Yes, sir.” He held out his hand. “Steve Holden,” he said.

  They shook. “Stan Uxbridge. Marines. You really a Green Beret?” Stan asked the question he had been sent to ask.

  Steve nodded. “Yes, sir.” No point in asking how the older man knew. His buddies had spotted the Harley, looked at the insignia on the helmet and spread the word. Steve knew how small towns worked. None better.

  “Hmph. You better bring your coffee over to our table.” Stan got up and clumped back to the corner on stiff, bow-legs.

  When Lily had refilled his mug, Steve followed Uxbridge.

  * * *

  “You might say that Clive Bascom made Success a success,” Stan Uxbridge said. The other men at the table smiled at this dusty witticism.

  “How’s that?” prompted Steve.

  “When Clive came out here after the war, he bought the old Rivers place,” Stan said.

  “That’s right.” Alfred Smith wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “Bill Rivers was down to a hundred head and none of his boys came back from the war.” He shook his head. “And his missus up and died on him, so my daddy said. Sold up to Bascom in ’46 and went out to Montana to live with his daughter. Nessie Buckle. She married some fellow out there. She and my grandma used to write letters every month, right up until my Gran died.”

  “Yep,” said Stan wresting the reins of the conversation from his pal. “Don’t know where Clive got his stake. But he had a good bit. He kept buying land and running cattle – till he found oil. Next thing we knew, there was money coming into town, left, right and center. Pretty soon, he owned most of the range around here. Paid full price too. Wasn’t nothing mean about him in those days.”

  “He changed,” put in Eldon Ramirez. “When his boys didn’t come back from the wars.”

  “Do you blame him?” asked Stan in a reasonable voice.

  Alfred stuck a chaw of tobacco in his cheek and sucked air. “Never cared for the way he was always marrying and unmarrying. The good book says ‘What God has joined together, let no man put asunder.’“

  “That’s as may be,” Stan muttered. “But Steve here ain’t interested in things that happened when he wasn’t even a gleam in his grandpappy’s eye.” He drank coffee and glared around at his peers until they were silent. “Bunch of wittering old men,” he pronounced scathingly. “Where was I?”

  “You were telling us that Clive Bascom’s sons didn’t come home after the war,” Steve prompted. “Which war would that be, sir?”

  “How many they got?” interrupted Alfred. “All them Bascoms was wild. They couldn’t wait to light out and do their military service. Not that that’s unusual around here.”

  There was a general round of nodding and solemn agreement.

  “Only them Bascoms was always volunteering for every dangerous thing there was. Got themselves killed for their trouble,” interjected rotund Wally Castle.

  “They was heroes,” said Stan loudly. “And don’t you forget it. Mr. Bascom, he had a case in his house with all their medals. Damned big case too. Seen it with my own eyes. But he never was the same after his boys died. Left kids most of them, and wouldn’t you know it, those youngsters signed up as soon as they were done with high school.”

  “And did they all die too, sir?” asked Steve.

  “Some did. Some didn’t,” Wally told him. “But Clive was in a lather every time one of them enlisted. Why,” his face wrinkled in a reminiscent smile, “When Gilbert and my boy went down to Colorado Springs and signed up with the Air Force, I purt near thought old Bascom would split a gasket.” He chortled and the others frowned in disapproval.

  “And did Gilbert get himself killed?” Steve inquired, although he knew perfectly well that Gilbert Bascom had, until the previous year, been CEO of B&B Oil.

  Wally guffawed. “Nah. My Bobby he got his self a ruptured duck and a purple heart, but Gil, he got a chestful of medals before he resigned and came back to help his grandpa run B&B. That’s what they called the oil company,” he explained to Steve. “Still do.”

  “Yeah,” Stan said, giving Wally the evil eye. “S
till a family business. And the ranch is the biggest one in Colorado. Miss Laura is running twenty thousand head of Black Angus on two hundred thousand acres. Not bad for a bit of a girl.”

  “Tough job for a woman,” Steve remarked.

  “She’s been doing it as good as any man these ten years,” said Stan. “If you want work, you go ask. Gary Evans is the foreman these days, and they are always looking for hard workers. Or you could ask at the stud. Miss Laura has herself a Quarter Horse operation out there.”

  “My niece Rosa is married to the stud foreman,” Eldon Ramirez put in. “Carlos says they’re short a hand. One of the fellows quit last week.”

  “And the Bascoms are partial to hiring veterans?” Steve asked.

  “Yep,” said Stan. “Which is why it had to be them blamed lawyers put that there clause into Clive’s will.” He turned an indignant face to the rest of the group who were nodding wisely, and then to Steve.

  “Said none of his great-grandchildren could inherit unless they left the military. Now why would a man who wouldn’t hardly hire a man unless he was a vet, put any such thing in his last will? Had to be the lawyers come up with that. And Zeke a Major too.” Stan paused and drank coffee. “I don’t suppose you knew a Zeke Bascom in Special Forces?”

  “I served under majors,” Steve gave the answer he had prepared. “I was just a sergeant myself.” Which was true, but wasn’t the question Uxbridge had asked.

  “NCO’s run the damned Army,” said Stan.

  “Damned straight,” said Alfred.

  “Miss Laura’s brother Calvin, he’s in the Reserves,” said Wally. “A Captain. Him and his cousin Patrick both. Shouldn’t be legal to tell a feller he has to leave the service to inherit what should be his by right. Damned lawyers.”

  “You got that right,” said Alfred. And the old men were off telling old stories and capping one another’s creaky jokes.

  Steve leaned back and listened. You could learn a lot if you kept your mouth shut and your ears open. Between the internet and Bob Willis of Thompson, Thompson and Willis, he knew a fair bit about the provisions of Clive’s will.