Chapter 9: Supper at the Ullriches

Lamar Ullrich's wife rang on Tuesday and invited me to supper.

"To bury the hatchet," she said, in a voice like warm syrup. "We're real sorry about the fire."

"Are you."

"Lamar was beside himself. Do come, honey. Seven sharp."

I put the phone down and looked at Rex, who was fixing the bunkhouse roof with a nail gun and a radio.

"Don't go," he said.

"I'm going."

"I thought you might."

"Tell me why I shouldn't."

"You shouldn't." He lowered the nail gun. "But I know you. You'll want to see what's on the table."

"Exactly."

"Ring me if you need fetching. I won't ask."

I kissed him, quickly, with the radio playing country music behind us, and went to find something to wear.

The Ullrich house was an enormous stone ranch with a gate, a fountain, and a flag the size of a bedsheet.

The wife, silver-blonde and sweetly smiling, kissed my cheek at the door.

Seven people sat down to dinner.

Lamar at one end.

His wife at the other.

Two ranchers I did not know, with identical belt buckles.

And, at my right hand, a smooth man in his forties with a Rolex and a very white smile, introduced simply as "our friend from Austin."

"I develop," said the man from Austin. "Water-dependent communities."

"How lovely."

"We're breaking ground on four thousand homes outside Dripping Springs next spring. They'll need a lot of water."

"I imagine they will."

Lamar carved a roast with a long knife, beaming.

"Miss Fairley," he said. "I owe you an apology."

"Do you?"

"I was rude at the dance. You're a smart girl. I'd like to start over."

Keep reading free with an account. Start Craving My British Cowboy from Chapter 1, then sign up free to read the rest of this chapter.