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All he’d wanted to do was save his grandfather’s farm and look after Mee-Maw.
And avoid Murphy.
Somehow Ryan didn’t think his goals would mesh with those of the pretty little thing waiting for him on the sidelines.
Just his luck.
BECCA SURVEYED the pack of girls running after the soccer ball. Some of them were pretty good for their age. Well, compared to her. But then Becca had entertained herself picking dandelions from a forsaken corner of whatever athletic field she’d graced.
Give her tai chi any day; it was more her style. No scoreboard to let her know how far along the game was. From the looks of the tall redheaded coach—Ryan MacIntosh, she knew from one of the parents—it had lasted too long already.
Still, MacIntosh seemed to remember why they were here. A few minutes after one girl scored on her own net, he stopped to give high fives for effort when his team managed to recover a turnover.
He looked even better in real life than he had in the few photos she’d dug up on the Internet. He didn’t look like the brain trust of a complicated farm scam.
At that thought, her father’s words when she’d said as much came back to her:
“Becca, remember, he’s a crook. A scammer. You’re just buying into the stereotype that crooks look like crooks.”
MacIntosh had that going for him. With his red-blond hair and his muscled legs that showed off a tan darker than usual for guys his coloring, he certainly didn’t fall into the Wanted-poster category. He was good with the kids, patient. She’d seen him break up a fight earlier. He’d handled that well. Odd for a guy who didn’t have kids of his own.
Becca had made it her business to find out all she could about Ryan MacIntosh before she’d arrived. Thirty-two. Never been married. No scrapes with the law. He’d graduated with an associate’s from Abraham Baldwin Agricultural College and a bachelor’s and a master’s from University of Georgia. Then he’d taken a sales position with an agriculture chemical company. Moved to middle Georgia to run his grandfather’s farm after his grandfather’s death the year before.
The farm had been in his family for five generations. On it, Ryan MacIntosh had grown soybeans, corn and cotton. Lately, though, it seemed that MacIntosh’s chief crop was desperation.
Right now, the farm was the smallest in acreage owned by any full-time farmer in the county—and in the past it had been in tax trouble. She’d turned up a few closed-out liens, as well.
Yup. Ryan MacIntosh was a desperate man.
And, according to her dad, probably a crook, even if he did give peewee-soccer players high fives.
The game played on with Ryan’s Bulldogs taking a beating at the hands of the Blue Devils. Had he chosen that team moniker out of loyalty for his alma mater? What did a person do with a degree in agronomy, anyway?
“Hey, shove that Thermos over and have a seat. This thing could take awhile.”
Becca glanced over at the dark-haired guy with the cast. “Really? I figured it was just about over.”
“Nah. We got started late—the referee stood us up. I’m Jack MacIntosh.”
She moved the Thermos and reached over to shake his hand. “Becca Reynolds. Any relation to Ryan?”
“Sure, first cousins, but we’re more like brothers. Ryan hadn’t mentioned meeting any ladies.”
A smile tugged at her lips as she thought how Ryan was not going to like meeting her in the slightest. “We haven’t actually met.”
Jack raised an eyebrow. “Oh. One of those online deals?”
His words made her feel a little guilty as she thought about her own Rooster—whom she owed an e-mail and hadn’t had a chance to pay that debt since she’d been researching MacIntosh and the other players in this scheme.
“No. This is business.” Becca fished out a card and handed it to him.
“Reynolds Agricultural Investigations.” Jack looked up from the card, a chill in his eyes. “You’re what? A hired gun for a crop-insurance firm?”
Becca had seen that chill before. Farmer types didn’t much care for her or her dad.
At least he didn’t make a cutesy remark about me investigating how many peppers Peter Piper picked. “I’m a private investigator. I work as a consultant for the insurance company that covers several of the farmers in this area, yes. I wouldn’t say a hired gun—”
“I know about people like you. I own an insurance agency.”
Her alarm bells started jangling. “Crop insurance?”
He laughed, a derisive snort. “You kidding? You can’t make any money selling crop insurance in south Georgia. No, strictly homeowners and auto, as well as life and a few health-insurance policies.”
Becca nodded, staying quiet to see what else Ryan MacIntosh’s cousin would volunteer. She didn’t have to wait long.
“So why are you investigating Ryan?”
“Who says I’m investigating your cousin?”
A shadow fell across her, and Becca looked up to see the man in question standing over her.
“Hand me that stack of cups, if you don’t mind.”
Ryan’s voice was clipped. She picked up the requested cups and extended them his way.
He knelt down beside her to get a refill. The hair on his muscled forearms glinted golden in the late-afternoon sun, and his T-shirt clung damply to a well-sculpted set of pecs that indicated he lifted something besides bales of hay.
He downed the sports drink and crumpled the cup in his hand. Rising to his feet on those marvelous legs of his, he stuck out a hand.
“I gather you’re looking for me. I’m Ryan MacIntosh.”
His clear blue gaze unsettled her. She felt heat rising in her face, struggled to remind herself that he was the one who should be on the defensive, not her.
“Becca Reynolds.” She started to reach for another card, but Jack reached up and handed Ryan the one she’d just given to him.
It was telling that Ryan didn’t even look at it. He never took his eyes off hers. Funny. She’d have sworn that a man with his coloring would have had green eyes.
“Richard Murphy told me somebody would be sniffing around. You already inspected his farm?”
“No. I thought I’d start with yours. I called ahead, and a lady gave me directions here, said I’d find you at the rec department.”
“That’d be Mee-Maw.” A small trace of pain flickered over his features. “She’s my grandmother—our grandmother. She’s nearly eighty-five.”
“Really?” Becca chose to ignore his veiled hint to back off in deference to his grandmother. “On the phone, she sounded younger than that.”
“Longevity runs in our family. Right, Jack?” But again, Ryan never took his eyes off Becca’s.
“Yup. Gramps worked that farm till the day he died—and he was eighty-six when he passed on.”
“I look forward to meeting her,” Becca said.
Again pain crossed Ryan’s features. Truth be told, Becca did feel a stirring of remorse. She hated the way the firm’s investigations caused so much collateral damage.
But as her dad so frequently reminded her, they simply exposed the ugly truth people tried to hide. They weren’t the ones who’d created it. No, that lay at the feet of scammers.
Like this guy?
But he looks…honest. Direct. Straight.
“You want to see the farm now?”
“Why not?” she asked.
“Get it over and done with,” Ryan agreed. “I hope you like chicken-fried steak. That’s what Mee-Maw is cooking for supper.”
Panic bubbled through Becca. Getting up close and personal with the family of her target wasn’t in her plans. It was better to avoid all the messy touchy-feely stuff that could cloud an investigation. That was her father’s mantra.
The beauty of analyzing satellite images was they couldn’t charm the pants off you.
“Oh, I couldn’t—”
But Becca’s attempt to politely decline Ryan’s invitation was met with a decisive shake of his head. “Mee-Maw would count it a personal insult if you came at suppertime and didn’t stay to eat. Besides, if you’re gunning for me, you’d best get a little nourishment before you get started, because it’s going to be a long and thankless job.”
Sunny_76@yoohoomail.com: No four-star lodging for me. The mattress is like concrete and the walls are so thin that I can hear people scurrying around in the next room.
Rooster@yoohoomail.com: Sure it’s people? Could be a mouse, you know.
Sunny_76@yoohoomail.com: Well, you’re comforting!
Rooster@yoohoomail.com: How come a farmer’s daughter is afraid of a little ol’ mouse?
Sunny_76@yoohoomail.com: If you could see the size of the cockroaches in this place, you’d be scared, too.
Rooster@yoohoomail.com: Where are you? Chernobyl?
Sunny_76@yoohoomail.com: Waaay in the backwoods, not a Starbucks in sight.
CHAPTER THREE
BECCA TRIED TO TAMP DOWN the adrenaline buzzing through her as she sat on the rough wooden bench. The second half of the soccer match was coming to a close now. She could tell by the way the parents were folding up their chairs and gathering up drink bottles.
If Ryan MacIntosh shared any of her nervous anticipation, he didn’t let on. Instead, he kept his attention on his soccer team and didn’t spare her a glance.
She discounted the flutter shimmering through her. Nerves. Way too much was riding on the outcome of this investigation.
My sweaty palms have nothing to do with that hunk on the field. He’s a target, remember? At best, he’s a material witness. At worst…
She’d know more once she had a look at his farm. Confident, wasn’t he, to invite her out for a drop-in visit? But then, he had mentioned Murphy.
Richard Murphy had made a killing off of the weather the past few years. If he didn’t suffer through a drought, then it was spring rains. If it wasn’t the weather, then it was a bad lot of seed. Murphy was an inveterate frequent flyer of the crop-insurance programs. She knew that from the dossier the insurance fraud guys had put together for her dad.
Any friend of Murphy’s should be suspect in Becca’s book.
Beside her, Jack lumbered to a standing position, balancing on his crutches. When she would have helped, he forestalled her with one derisive look.
Right. She was the bad guy.
A blond-haired little girl dashed up. “Daddy! Daddy! Did you see the goal I made? I did it!”
Ryan came up behind the girl, ruffling her hair. “Next Mia Hamm, yes, sir. Jack, you and Marla may have that retirement problem solved after all.”
“I won’t stop the IRA contributions just yet,” he told Ryan. A quick telltale glance toward Becca, and Jack added, “Uh, call me, okay? Let me know how things go.”
Ryan didn’t bother with circumspection. He eyed Becca openly. “How it’s gonna go is she’ll get the nickel tour, Mee-Maw’s chicken-fried steak and then adios, amiga. Because there’s nothing going on for her to find. Is there, Jack?”
Jack shifted. Becca couldn’t decide whether the shift was to accommodate his leg or a sign of his discomfiture. “Right,” was all he said.
Ryan grabbed the five-gallon beverage cooler. “Ready? Or do you know the way?”
“I have a map, but I’ll follow you. Need a hand?” Becca reached for the cups.
One of his big hands scooped them up before she could retrieve them. “Not from you, I don’t.”
He marched off toward the gate. Becca looked over at Jack. “Is it just me or is he always like this?”
Jack shrugged. “The ladies around here tend to think he’s hot stuff. So I’d figure…it was you.”
She followed Ryan to the grass parking lot. He was busy loading the cooler and a couple of soccer balls into their mesh bag on the back of a dented pickup. The truck in all its rusty glory held her attention.
Becca had expected a big, shiny extended-cab model, fresh off the showroom floor. What she saw was a truck at least fifteen years old that bore the scars of work.
It didn’t jibe with the typical scammer’s profile.
Ryan shot her a smile that was short on any real welcome. “I’m about ready. Do you need a lift to your car?”
“It’s right here. The red Mini Cooper.”
He looked past her, toward the only Mini Cooper in the lot. Now his lips twisted a little. “That thing run on golf-cart batteries?”
She was accustomed to people teasing her about her car; Becca didn’t care. Buying that car was one of the truly profligate things she’d ever done—but her aunt would be smiling down on her for it.
Becca swallowed hard, wishing for just an instant that her aunt Mala were with her. Her father’s younger sister had adored Mini Coopers when the imports had become popular, and she’d worn red until the day she’d died of breast cancer. She’d encouraged Becca early on to be a tad whimsical. Despite her father’s pragmatic bent, Becca had to admit to succumbing to Aunt Mala’s teachings with the car.
Besides, it reminded Becca of a time not so long ago when her own business was going great guns, she’d bought her own house and the future looked bright. The car was the one thing she’d kept from her old life.
Now Becca returned to the present. “Betcha my Mini would beat your old truck.”
Ryan slid a hand over the dings and scratches. “This isn’t any old truck. This belonged to Gramps. What’s good enough for him is good enough for me. I wouldn’t bet the farm on your little Matchbox toy, not until you’ve looked under the hood of my truck.”
