Steps led to a wraparound porch that ran the length of the house. The old Victorian house, larger than he’d expected, sprawled across a lot shaded by huge oak trees that he guessed were as old as the house. Blake critically examined the house as he got out of the car, noting that the white wooden exterior could definitely use a coat of paint. It didn’t take long to find the street or the boardinghouse in the small town. And he didn’t relish the thought of cramping his six-foot-two frame into the back seat of a compact. Since he’d now run out of both hotels and choices, Blake realized, it was a question of bunking down in either some quaint throwback boardinghouse or his car. And there wasn’t one thing his wealth or his influence-or his level of frustration-could do about the situation.īlake glanced at the paper in his hand, directions to a boardinghouse that a sympathetic desk clerk had offered him. The limited number of hotels in town were full, and would be for the duration of his stay. The century-old celebration lasted for weeks and brought in visitors from surrounding areas and tourists from around the country. Despite the concerns of his competent secretary in Los Angeles, he’d brushed aside her offers to make a reservation, preferring to get the lay of the land himself. Arriving that day in the small Texas oil town to close a business deal, he’d expected no problem finding a hotel room. Blake Matthews slammed the door of his rental car in frustration.
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