Chapter 1
Trenton stared at the crumpled document in his hand, the typed letters turning blurry before his eyes. He forced himself to blink, shake his head, and search for the one line that sent him into a stupor every time he read it.
Ownership of The Homestead Inn, located at 373 Haven Hills Drive, will be distributed as follows: 50% goes to the deceased’s grandson, Trenton McGrath; the remaining 50% has been sold to an outside party, set to arrive on March tenth of this year.
Trenton exhaled an irritated breath, the foggy white puff of condensation blurring his view once again. Why Milton McGrath, the grandfather who’d raised him, would sell half of the inn was beyond Trenton, as was the mystery party “set to arrive” that very day.
The Homestead Inn was profitable enough that it’d been basking in the black financially for years now. To that point, Milt hadn’t even pocketed the sum of the sale. With the aid of his late grandfather’s attorney, Trenton had come to understand that Milt had given the money back, in a sense, providing the buyers used the funds for improvements or additions as they saw fit.
Trenton shuffled the pages in his hand, bringing the real estate agreement from the back to the front.Thiswas how he knew the buyer wasn’t a mere investor or even a single buyer at all. Five names were listed as equal shareholders of the second half. Names Trenton had never before seen or heard.
He shook his head. Regardless of what the will called for, he wouldn’t stick around for long. Sure, he’d stay long enough to get things settled for Betty’s sake, but then he’d be on his way.
An image of Betty came to mind. Trenton never did have a mother growing up, but Betty was as close to one as he’d known. She’d been helping run the inn for over twenty years now. Betty couldn’t be any happier about the upcoming changes than Trenton was. Not that she’d do any complaining. That wasn’t in her make.
What difference did it make? Milton was dead, half of the inn would belong to heaven-only-knew who, and the place would haunt Trenton with secrets he’d never unfold. It was time for him to sell his ranch, buy a new spot of land, and live the life of solitude he was destined for. God thought man wasn’t well off alone, but Trenton was a different sort.
Trigger whinnied and stomped, reminding him of the task at hand. Trenton reached out and smoothed his palm along the horse’s warm, muscled shoulder, eyes still pasted on the document. “Just a minute, boy. We’ll get you going.”
His gaze slipped to the list of buyers, each with the same last name: Duran. Richard, Emmitt, Maverick, Memphis, and Andie. The spelling of that final name had him wondering if Andie might be the only female in the bunch. She could be mother to a family of sons, he guessed.
The fact that hehadto guess only frustrated him more. Just what in tarnation was that man thinking? Running the inn was one thing. Trenton had been doing that for years now. But running the inn with perfect strangers? Strangers that would, according to the contract, be living on the premises as well?
Every time he pictured the group strutting around like they owned the place, Trenton had to remind himself that the newcomersdidin fact own as much of it as he did.
This was just like Milt, wasn’t it? Trenton’s granddad was a man of secrets. He’d left nearly all of Trenton’s questions unanswered while he was alive. It seemed fitting that he’d leave behind even more mysteries in his death.
Too bad Trenton didn’t feel like playing the clueless detective any longer. In fact, he’d listed his ranch with a well-known real estate agent the same week as the funeral. Who knew how long it would take to find a buyer for his ranch? Not that Trenton would have to wait around for an offer. He was set enough financially that he could purchase his new ranch and wait out the time.
Anticipation stirred within him at the thought. At last, he’d have what he always wanted—a life of solitude with nothing but his cattle, his land, and his horses to keep him.
“They’re just about here,” drawled Betty from behind.
Trenton spun in time to place the sound of those bracelets jingling as she walked, her smile big enough to bring out the crinkles hiding at the outer corners of her eyes. “I saw them coming over the pass from the window. They might not get the warmest welcome from mother nature, but I figured you and I could make up for that. We could spark up a fire, pass out a few drinks, and have Mable impress them with her homemade cornbread and honey butter. What do you say?”
Mable had been the head chef at The Homestead since Trenton could remember. If anyone could make them glad they’d come to the inn, it was her. But Trenton wasn’t interested in making them glad they came.
Besides, he’d already scratched out a welcome of his own. An image of the note he’d taped to the front door popped into his mind. If Betty spotted the handwritten note, she would tear it down and give him a real tongue lashing for being informal and rude. But since Betty rarely used the front entrance, his message would likely stick until the newcomers arrived—which, it sounded like, would happen in a matter of minutes.
“I’d rather not,” he said, his mind wandering to a different matter. “I bet you anything they take the wrong turn at that fork up the road.”
Betty trilled out a giggle and primped her platinum hair. “They might do that very thing. We’ve got to get us a sign out there, I suppose.”
Trenton nodded in agreement. That wrong turn was a common mistake for guests. One that, unfortunately, led folks to his personal property. Hence, the sign he’d posted at the entrance to his ranch:Private Property. This is NOT The Homestead Inn. Go back to the fork and turn right.Of course, a sign at the fork would be much better.
“I’ll talk to someone from the county today,” Betty offered. “See if they can’t help us take care of the problem.”
Trenton straightened, then folded the documents along their haphazard creases and shoved the stack back into his coat pocket. “Thank you,” he said with a nod. “I’m taking Trigger for a ride. He’s been cooped in here for the last three days.” He turned his attention back to the waiting horse, but not before catching the look of disappointment he was hoping to dodge.
“You’re really just going to take off right as they arrive? That’s not very gentleman-like,” Betty added, as if he hadn’t sensed the disapproval in her expression.
“I never claimed to be a gentleman,” Trenton said as he pulled on his gloves. He took hold of the reins and guided Trigger from his stall, the scent of musty straw stirring in the air.
“And yet you’re one of the finest gentlemen I know,” Betty countered as they approached the entry.
Trenton blanched from the compliment as he hiked onto the saddle. “Well,” he said under his breath, “not today.”
With that, he slapped the reins and headed through the open barn doors.
