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attorney once the truth came out.”
    Because even though Greg’s last name was Barrett, he was still a Campbell. And since Wallace Campbell’s heart attack, the bastard son had been at the helm. Interesting that Greg didn’t seem to be bothered by the gossip. And that he still had plenty of work.
    Strange, though, for Crow Hill to have two law offices instead of one, both practices belonging to Wallace Campbell’s get.
    Casper wondered how many clients had come to Greg because he’d proved he could keep a secret. Yeah, yeah, attorney-client privilege and all, but Greg had kept his own. Kept Wallace Campbell’s, too, until the old man had gone down with a coronary. And even then he’d only told Dax.
    “My lunch appointment’s here,” Greg said, sliding from the stool. Holding Casper’s gaze for a long beat, he said, “Give my best to Dax,” before turning away.
    The door to the diner opened, and Philip Hart walked in to shake Greg’s hand. Casper watched the two of them settle into the diner’s back booth, a waitress arriving with water glasses as soon as they’d taken their seats. Huh. He’d heard rumors about the difficulties the Hart family was facing. Hell, he and the boys were up against ones that could very well drop them in the same shit bucket.
    They’d used an attorney in Dallas to handle the legalities of their shared inheritance. He doubted that would change. Dax hadn’t wanted the family attorneys knowing his business.
    And so far in his life, knock on wood, Casper had managed to avoid needing more than a public defender to get him out of the occasional drunk and disorderly. Though this thing with Clay…
    He swiveled his stool, facing the pass-through window andthe bustle in the kitchen. Something about seeing that mess of a boy in that mess of a house took him back a lot of years to a lot of wrongs.
    No kid ever needed to deal with what Clay was going through. With what Casper had gone through, and probably wouldn’t have survived if not for his boys.
    Clay didn’t have a gang, he had a dog, and until Casper figured out a way to do things that wouldn’t have him hating himself, he’d do what he could his way. Since his way usually consisted of winging it, he’d have to hope he didn’t fuck up things worse than they already were, and that he could keep off the local law’s radar.
    Hmm. Maybe he should’ve asked Greg for his card—
    “Casper Jayne?”
    Wresting off thoughts knotting his gut like a catch rope, he turned and looked into the eyes of Royce Summerlin.
    The older man nudged his hat up a notch, his face ruddy from more than the sun and his ancestry, his gaze sharp as barbed wire, his mind thoroughly whetted to getting his way. “Heard you were back but haven’t had a chance to say hello.”
    Casper was pretty sure there wouldn’t have been any reason for him to, but he took hold of the man’s outstretched hand and gave it a firm shake. Royce was in his sixties, looked older, but had the grip of a man a decade to the other side. Dave Dalton had looked similar, aged by the weather and the worry of a life lived at the mercy of the land, a life made easier for Royce by the Summerlin fortune.
    “Royce. How’re things?”
    “Good enough, but could always be better.”
    Casper nodded. It was a sentiment widely held. But he didn’t have time to spend talking about beef prices and the drought. “I hear you’re looking for someone to break some horses.”
    “I am,” Royce said, standing tall beneath a hat that added to his imposing height. “Had a man doing it for me, but I’ve sent him over to help Nina.”
    “Banning?”
    “That’s him,” Royce said with a nod. “I know you made your name and your money riding bulls, but if you’ve got any interest—”
    “I do.” He pushed up from where he’d been leaning, reaching for his wallet as Teri brought a big brown grocery bag to the counter.
    “Hey, Royce.”
    “Afternoon, Teri,” the older man said, sweeping his