Either way, she’d break. They always did.
The Blum farm was one of six I’d been sent here to acquire rights to, and of the six, their farm had the largest shale deposit. On visiting the farms to open up talks, I’d been denied by the Blums before I’d stepped onto their front porches. But I had a couple of aces up my sleeve.
Just had to play them right.
This part of the country was always the same—families living on the same plot of land for a hundred and fifty years or more, somehow able to survive the farming decline in the fifties, when everyone sold off their rights for oil to keep their businesses alive. It was rare that the state didn’t own the mineral rights—on the sale of any old property, mineral rights transferred straight to the state—but to find this many hold outs along the vein of shale we’d found was unfortunate.
Which was why they’d sent me.
I was the closer, sliding in to get the job done when others failed. I knew a hundred towns just like this. Sure, they’d hold the line for a little while, but soon enough, they’d fold. Just had to find the weak spot and press. Easy enough.
I’d learned from the best, after all. My father was the original closer for Flexion and my boss. Mistakenly, I thought his mentoring me would bring us closer. But nobody should wish to get so close to a snake. You’d think I’d learn my lesson after all these years, but here I was in Lindenbach, Texas, dead set on closing the deal as quickly as possible in a thinly veiled attempt at impressing that cold-blooded bastard who raised me.
He’d taught me two things in life. No one would help me but me. Power was equivalent to control, and control was equivalent to happiness. In thirty years, life had only proven me right.
Some sought power with a fist. I acquired it with a velvet tongue and tried-and-true strategy. For instance, in Lindenbach, I knew at least half of my in was with the mayor—a base, misguided, tone-deaf man whose power was strictly his for what his forefathers accomplished. His Stetson gave him more power than his policies ever would.
Convincing the rest of the town was where the challenge waited. There was one sure-fire way into their good graces, and it rested somewhere in the Blum family farm.
Maybe in Jo’s hands. Provided they weren’t occupied by another egg.
My eyes slid over her again, noting the line of her jaw as her chin lifted in defiance. The stubborn line of her mouth that, even in its tempered rage, couldn’t flatten the plump pout of her lips. The spiteful tightening of her eyes, as blue as a gemstone lit up by a burst of flame, lined with thick, black lashes. Her hair was the color of midnight—the same shade as her sisters, who wore equally hateful looks, though they barely registered next to the bonfire that was Jo Blum.
“If no one has any further questions or farm fare to throw”—I paused for a ripple of laughter—“we’ll see you all at the farmers' market this weekend. Come by our booth. Bring all the eggs you want.”
The fiery color rose in Jo’s cheeks, a smudge against porcelain skin.
“Better wear a raincoat,” Poppy Blum shouted.
My gaze shifted to her, tightening as I smiled. “Maybe we’ll even make a game of it, Miss Blum.”
There—the air went out of the youngest Blum just a little, just enough to know it was on my behalf, though she didn’t quit the snarl on her face.
Satisfied, I adjourned the conference, turning to make my way up the steps with the mayor and a few others flanking me.
“Those goddamn Blum brats,” the mayor growled. “They’ve been a pain in my ass since they were in middle school.”
I shot him a look. “A trio of preteen girls were a problem for you?”
His weathered face flushed with defense and embarrassment. “You didn’t see what they did to my granddaddy’s statue in town. It was indecent.”
“Did it involve produce?”
“I’d have preferred it. They covered it in … with … well, they hung two dozen brassieres on him like a goddamn cross-dressing fa—”
“What color?” I interrupted, adding homophobic to my ongoing list of Mitchell’s traits.
“The hell does it matter what color?”
I shrugged. “Just curious.”
“All of ’em,” he answered darkly.
I swallowed my laughter, though my face went stoic, nodding in feigned sympathy.
“Those Blum girls are trouble,” he noted, seemingly on my behalf. “If anyone’s gonna give you a hard time, it’s them.”
But a smile tilted my lips. “I was counting on that.”
Puzzled, he glanced at me. “You’re going toe-to-toe with the Blums?”
“It’s why I’m here, isn’t it?”
“Well, sure, but—”
“I can handle them. Question is whether they can handle me.”
A wicked smile unfurled beneath his impressive mustache. “Fair enough, Mr. Stone. Let’s see what you can do.”
My cocksure smile sealed the count of my chickens before they hatched.
Because every egg was in Jo Blum’s hands.
I just didn’t know it yet.
3
Bee Witches
JO
I pulled up to our house two days later, staring down at the two-seater Audi from my three-quarter-ton Hemi with no small amount of rage and disdain.
By my math, only one human in the county would drive a car like that, and he shouldn’t be on my property, let alone in my house.
If the bed of my truck wasn’t full of bees I’d just rescued from the junkyard, I could have fit that little German monstrosity between my wheel wells. Or I could have just rolled over it like The Beefeater at MonsterTruckopolis.
Satisfying as that might have been, I probably couldn’t afford the hike on my insurance. Wouldn’t have been worth it knowing he wouldn’t give a shit. He probably had three more at home, wherever that was. Hell, I figured.
I threw the truck into park and slid out, slamming the door as hard as I could—which took both hands—before storming up the steps and into the house.
Our ranch had been in our family for coming up on two-hundred years, ever since the Blums immigrated from Germany, finally stopping here in the Hill Country. I had a suspicion it wasn’t because they loved it here. More like it just kept getting hotter and hotter as they moved West, so they threw up their hands and threw down their stakes rather than continue to torture themselves or lose any more people to dysentery. But they would have been right about the weather—there was nothing between here and San Diego but desert and dirt.
My ancestors had chosen wisely. This was the last little oasis before a vast stretch of tumbleweeds, not to mention just how many of their countrymen were here. Germans had settled in this little patch of Texas, bringing beer and brats and broad shoulders to the Lone Star State.
Still couldn’t appreciate their stupid, impractical little sports cars, though.
I was mad enough to spit (on The Suit’s windshield, if my mother hadn’t taught me manners), madder still when I heard him at the big formal dining table in the great room. My mother wore a polite smile, as did my eldest sister, Daisy. Poppy—the middle child—had on a smile too, though hers was more mischief than manners. She caught my eye, saying silently, Can you believe this asshole?