Her Heart-Stealing Cowboys [Hellfire Ranch 2] (Siren Publishing Ménage Amour) by Jennifer August

man in question and decided to talk to Whitcombe privately later. She pulled out her wallet and slid the required cards across the wooden counter top.
    “Did you know Mr. Fischer?” she asked.
    “No,” Whitcombe said. “Never saw him before.”
    “He didn’t stay here?”
    Whitcombe sniffed. “Certainly not. I do not allow riffraff to stay in this establishment. We have very high standards here, Miss Lyons. You shan’t need to worry over any kind of shenanigans.”
    She bit her lip to smother a smile even as she wanted to point out the blue tarp, evidence of past “shenanigans.” Rebecca successfully squashed the urge. Good breeding and manners helped her win over temptation.
    For once.
    While Whitcombe typed her information in, she took a good look around. The office had obviously been built long before the buildings behind it, but the charm had been remodeled right out of it. She could have been standing in any hotel lobby across the country. A nondescript orange-and-brown couch rested beneath the picture window with matching armchairs flanking it. A small table with magazines featuring Texas attractions stood in the corner and next to it teetered a wire rack stuffed with dozens of sightseeing brochures. Pictures of steamboats, cowboys, saloons, and dancehall girls covered the walls.
    A large sepia print hung behind the counter and she leaned forward to study it closer.
    “That’s Miss Apple Binswain. She was Minerva’s great-great-grandmother. She owned the Queen back in 1873 just as the town formed. It used to be a brothel but we’re past that now.”
    Rebecca blinked a couple of times. “A brothel? As in a…”
    Whitcombe waved his hands. “Yes, yes, a house of ill repute. I dare say it’s ancient history and truth be told it wasn’t all that bad back then.” Whitcombe beamed up at the picture. “Quite a woman was Miss Binswain. Miss Apple, that is. Miss Minerva would roll over in her grave if you confused the two of them.” He smiled and handed her cards back. “Miss Apple’s view on life and morals was quite a bit less rigid than Miss Minerva’s.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Truth be told, Miss Minerva was more frigid than a Popsicle. Do you know she tried to have the Alfons Huber memorial torn down because she found out he’d been married twice?”
    Rebecca looked at Tag with slightly wild eyes. He just shook his head.
    “Why no, I didn’t know that. May I have my key?”
    “Of course.” He turned back to his computer. “Mr. Reynolds—he’s a distant ancestor of Huber’s—is in town to research his famous kinsman. Well, I was just telling him about Minerva and her odd notions. I mean, I know we British can be cold fish, but she was practically arctic.” Whitcombe pressed a button and the printer next to him churned and beeped. He plucked a yellow sheet of paper off and handed it to her along with a pen. “Sign here, please. You’re in room 230. That’s on the opposite side of the bombed room. Unfortunately, I did have to situate you rather close to the wedding party.” A pained look crossed Whitcombe’s face. “The sheriff can tell you he has been to various locations more than once to settle them down. They’re good kids, just a bit noisy. If they get loud, please give me a call.”
    “Forget that, Whitty.” Tag leaned a hip against the counter and frowned at the smaller man. “If they get rowdy one more time, I’m going to toss their asses out of my county.”
    Whitty’s eyes went round and twin spots of pink dotted his cheeks. “No, no, no. You most certainly will not. Sheriff, do you have any idea how much money they’re spending in Freedom? Why the Chrome Barrel is raking it in nightly, or so Antoine says. And surely Maljib would lose a ton of money, too.”
    Tag held up his hand. “I’ve given them plenty of warnings. And is that why you haven’t called me out here?”
    The look the hotel manager gave the sheriff promised a stern discussion if he