Millionaire in a Stetson Read Online Free Page B

help?”
    Travis arched a brow.
    Sawyer took a swig of his beer, realizing it had been foolish of him to offer. “I know a couple of politicians,” he explained.
    “My brother was elected Mayor last year. I think he’s got the political angle covered.”
    “Good enough, then.”
    There was no sense in taking on somebody else’s fight. Sawyer’s attention strayed back to Niki. He obviously had enough trouble on his hands.
    * * *
    “Since there is no earthly reason you would buy yourself a cattle ranch in Colorado,” Dylan Bennett opened as soon as Sawyer came in through the front door of the Raklin place.
    The man had parked himself in the living room of the ranch house, boots up on a worn, leather ottoman. “And since you’re calling yourself Smith—unimaginative as hell, by the way. I’m guessing somebody’s in trouble.”
    “We’re the Laytons,” Sawyer responded drily, pausing to plunk his Stetson on a wall peg in the entryway and rake a hand through his short hair. “Trouble is our middle name.”
    Dylan glanced around the expansive, recently updated living and dining areas of the big house. It was roomy and nicely finished, with gleaming hardwood, freshly painted walls, and a myriad of high ceilings, hewn wooden beams and panoramic windows.
    “Pretty deep trouble,” he drawled. “Judging by how much this place must have set you back.”
    “You always were smarter than the average cowboy,” Sawyer drawled, moving into the living room.
    “You want to catch me up?” Dylan stretched back in the worn armchair.
    By contrast to the house, the furnishings were grim. They consisted of the leftovers the Raklins hadn’t bothered to pack up, a worn brown sofa, a creaky armchair and a dated, arborite table with four mustard-yellow, vinyl chairs with spindly metal legs.
    “You bring any beer?” Sawyer asked Dylan before sitting down.
    “Stocked the fridge.” Dylan cocked his head toward the kitchen where the Raklins had left four high-end, fairly new appliances. “Didn’t make much sense to waste a trip through town.”
    “Good thinking,” Sawyer approved, carrying on through the dining room to the kitchen.
    He liberated a couple of bottles of Coors from the refrigerator door then made his way back to Dylan.
    “It’s Charles, isn’t it?” asked Dylan as he accepted one of the icy-cold beers.
    “What makes you say that?” Not that Sawyer had any intention of denying the truth to Dylan. Dylan was on their side. He’d been loyal his entire life.
    As teenagers, the two men had run pretty wild together whenever Sawyer visited the Montana ranch. They stole liquor from the cook’s pantry, borrowed more than one ranch pickup truck, got into fistfights and picked up girls. Their exploits had cemented a friendship, and Sawyer would trust Dylan with his life.
    Dylan looked pointedly around the ranch house. “You bought yourself ten-thousand acres of prime land. As cover stories go, it’s the very definition of overkill. I figure the only reason you’d go to this much trouble is to protect Charles’ Senate seat.”
    “You nailed it,” Sawyer agreed, dropping onto the old, lumpy sofa and taking a swig of his beer. It was cool against his throat, dry from breathing in the dust of the construction site.
    “You’re blending,” Dylan stated.
    “In with the locals,” Sawyer confirmed. He and his uncle had concocted the plan together.
    “What the hell did Charles do to warrant this level of complexity?”
    Sawyer knew he shouldn’t smile. It was a serious situation. But Dylan was right, they were cleaning up a big mess with high stakes, and that situation inevitably involved Uncle Charles.
    “You ever heard of Gabriella Gerard?” Sawyer asked.
    “Can’t say that I have.”
    “She was a D.C. legend, infamous around the town. Nobody knew where she came from, but everyone agreed she could have launched a thousand ships with one crook of her baby finger.
    Word on the street is that she had affairs