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petroleum company signs were affixed to the doors, no tools or equipment rode in the bed. All he had seen there were some hay remnants.
    John Patrick had no reason to think his brother-in-law wouldn’t confide in him or that he would tell him a lie about being contacted by Lone Star Oil and Gas. Hell, Justin Sadler was pure as the driven snow. John Patrick doubted the man had ever told a lie in his entire boring, wholesome life.
    But still he felt uneasy.
    A thought zoomed into his mind and made him slam on the brakes, sending the SUV into a skid. This was perfect. Fuckin’ perfect. His plan had been to sneak onto Justin’s place some evening within the coming two or three weeks and turn those horses loose, but he had worried about being discovered. But now he could suggest the blame lay with the people Justin had enlisted to help care for the horses. He could hear it now: “Gee, they must have left a gate unlatched, Justin. Tough luck, buddy.”
    John Patrick was almost giddy with relief. With the horses gone, Justin would have no reason to stay in a big-ass house with so much acreage. With no reason to stay, selling the place to his brother-in-law, the only Daly who had ever treated Justin like real family, would be as natural as nodding off in church. And Justin, being Justin, would sell it cheap, too.
    John Patrick thought about the business card he had removed from Justin’s screen door. Somebody from Lone Star Oil and Gas had come back just a few days after leaving the first business card and left a second one. So the oil company must have a serious interest in negotiating with Justin to drill on his land. And why not? John Patrick knew from reliable sources that Justin sat on top of one of the largest untappedgas reservoirs since the boom of the fifties and sixties. The very thought of a well or two or three being put down on that section of land made John Patrick giddy all over again. Luckily, he had found the second business card before Justin did and had promptly disposed of it.
    Haunting Justin with Rachel’s afghan, her magazine, her wedding rings and perfume had cracked John Patrick up when he thought of them, but the pièce de résistance was the roses. Whenever he and his sexless wife, Felicia the Non-nympho, as he preferred to call her, had been invited to Rachel and Justin’s home, fresh roses had always been sitting on the coffee table. It was just Rachel’s added touch, something women did. So going to Justin’s house earlier today before Justin finished his shift, cutting a few roses and putting them on the coffee table had been a snap.
    John Patrick chuckled at his own cleverness. He couldn’t believe how well his luck was running. It was all so easy, he almost felt guilty. Almost, but not quite. He whooped out loud and pressed the accelerator, reveling in the immediate response of the Cayenne’s big engine. He liked when things responded—man, woman or machine.
    Still grinning, he reached for his cell phone. So much success had left him feeling smug and sure of himself. And horny as hell. He pressed a number and waited. A sweet voice, husky and seductive, greeted him.
    “Hey, Priscilla, how are ya, darlin’?…That’s good, that’s good. Listen, dumplin’, how ’bout I go by the store and pick up a couple of bottles of champagne? We can have a party in your pants tonight.”
     
    Re-entering his house, Justin mustered a smile. “Sorry, ladies. That was my brother in-law. He comes by from time to time. He’s been a good friend to me.”
    “Thought you said Rachel’s family hated your guts,” Edwina said.
    “They do. John Patrick’s the only one who doesn’t hold a grudge after…after what happened to Rachel.”
    “Speaking of grudges,” Debbie Sue said, “we need to know just exactly what did happen to Rachel, Justin.”
    “Yeah,” Edwina said. “That’s pretty much gonna decide whether we accept your business or Debbie Sue runs over you with her truck when we leave