Michelle Major - A Kiss On Crimson Ranch

She pulled her well-worn jeans jacket tight and squinted through a mini dust tornado as a gust of wind whipped along the town’s main drag. Mid-May in Southern California and the temperature hovered at a balmy seventy degrees, but Crimson still had a bit of winter’s chill to the air. The mountain peaks surrounding the town were covered in snow.

Sara didn’t do snow.

She opened the pale turquoise door to the office of Crenshaw and Associates and stepped in, lifting her knock-off Prada sunglasses to the top of her head.

The desk in the reception area sat vacant, large piles of paper stacked precariously high. “Hello?” she called in the general direction of the office door at the back of the lobby.

A chair creaked and through the door came a younger man who looked like he could have been Andy Griffith’s rumpled but very handsome son. He peered at her over a pair of crooked reading glasses, wiping his hands on the paper napkin stuffed into his collared shirt.

Sara caught the whiff of barbecue and her stomach grumbled. No food envy, she reminded herself. Noodles were enough for her.

“Sorry, miss,” the man said as he looked her over. “No soliciting. Try a couple doors down at the diner. Carol might have something left over from the lunch rush.”

Sara felt her eyes widen a fraction. The guy thought she was a bum. Fantastic. She pulled at her spiky bangs. “I’m looking for Jester Crunchless,” she said with a well-timed lip curl.

“I’m Jason Crenshaw.” The man bristled. “And who might you be?”

“Sara Wells.”

Immediately his posture relaxed. “Ms. Wells, of course.” He pulled out the napkin as he studied her, revealing a tie decorated with rows of small snowboards. “You know, we watched Just the Two of Us religiously around here. You’re different than I expected.”

“I get that a lot.”

“Right.” He chuckled self-consciously. “You’re a heck of a lady to track down.”

“I’m here now.”

“Of course,” he repeated. “Why don’t you step into my office?”

“Why don’t you hand over the check?”

His brows drew together. “Excuse me?”

“On the phone you said inheritance.” She reached into her purse. “I have ID right here. Let’s get this over with.”

“Were you close to your grandmother, Ms. Wells?”

“No.” She could barely remember her grandmother. Sara’s mother had burned a trail out of Crimson as soon as she could and had kept Sara far away from her estranged family.

“The heart attack was a shock. We’re told she didn’t suffer.” He paused. “It’s a loss for the whole town. Miss Trudy was the backbone of Crimson.”

A sliver of something, a long-buried emotion, slipped across Sara’s heart and she clamped it down quickly. Shaking her head, she made her voice flip. “It’s tragic that she was your backbone and whatnot. I barely knew the woman. Can we talk about the money?”

Another pause. “There is no money.” Crenshaw’s tone took on a harsh edge. Harsh was Sara’s home turf.

Sara matched his emotion. “Then why in the hell did I just drive all the way from California?”

He cleared his throat. “We discussed an inheritance on the phone, Ms. Wells. Not money, specifically.” He turned to a rickety file cabinet and peered into the top drawer. “I have it right here.”

Great. She and April had driven almost a thousand miles for an old piece of costume jewelry or something. She mentally calculated if she could get to Denver on the fumes left in her gas tank.

He turned back to her and held out a set of keys. “There’s some paperwork, for sure. We should talk to Josh about how he fits into the mix. He and Trudy had big plans for the place. But you look like you could use a rest. Go check it out. We can meet again tomorrow morning.”

Tomorrow morning she’d be halfway to the Pacific Ocean. “What place?”

“Crimson Ranch,” he told her. “Miss Trudy’s property.” He jingled the keys.

Sara’s stomach lurched. “She left me a property?”

Before Crenshaw could answer, cool air tickled Sara’s ponytail. She turned as her mother, Rosemarie Wells, glided in with bottle-blond hair piled high on top of her regal head. A man followed in her wake, indiscriminately middle-aged, slicked-back salt-and-pepper hair, slight paunch and cowboy boots that looked custom-made. Sara assumed he was the latest in her mother’s long string of rich, powerful, jerk boyfriends.

Could this day get any worse?

Rose slanted Jason Crenshaw a dismissive glance then snapped her fingers at Sara. “We need to talk, Serena.”

Sara’s stomach lurched, but she focused on the attorney, snatching the keys out of his still-outstretched palm.

“May I help you?” he asked, his eyes a little dazed. Her mother had had that effect on men since Sara could remember. It had been at least two years since she’d seen her mother last, but Rose looked exactly the same as far as Sara could tell. Maybe with a few less wrinkles thanks to the wonders of modern plastic surgery.

“You can ignore her.” Sara bit at a cuticle.

“Serena, stop that obnoxious behavior.”

She nibbled harder. “This is kind of a coinkydink, Mom. You showing up now.” Sara locked eyes with her mother. Rose knew about the will, she realized in an instant.

Her mother’s gaze raked her. “You look like hell, Serena.”

“Stop calling me that. My name is Sara.” She narrowed her eyes but crossed her arms over her chest, suddenly conscious that she was wearing an ancient and not very supportive sports bra. “Sara Wells. The name you put on my birth certificate.”

Her mother’s large violet eyes rolled to the ceiling. “The name I had legally changed when you were eight.”

“I changed it back and you know it.” Sara took a step forward. “A monumental pain in the back end, by the way.” She cocked her head to one side. “Although it’s handy when collections comes calling.”

Her mother’s nose wrinkled. “I can help you with that, Serena.”

“Sara.”

Rose ignored her. “Richard wants to buy your grandmother’s property.” She tilted her head at the aging cowboy, who tipped his hat rim at Sara, Clint Eastwood style.

“I don’t understand why Gran left it to me.”

“To make things difficult for me, of course,” Rose said with an exaggerated sigh. She dabbed at the corner of her eye. “Mothers are supposed to look out for their children, not keep them from their rightful inheritance.”

Sara never could cry on cue. She envied her mother that.

“No matter. I know you’ve gotten yourself into another mess, Serena. A financial nightmare, really. We can fix that right now. Mr. Crenshaw, would you be so good as to draw up the paperwork?” She leveled a steely gaze at Sara. “I’m bailing you out again. Remember that.”

Rose had never helped Sara out of anything—contract negotiations, come-ons from slimy casting directors, defamatory tabloid headlines, a career slowly swirling down the drain. The only times in Sara’s life her mother had stepped in to help were when it benefited Rose at Sara’s expense.

“I’m not selling.”

“What?”

“Not yet. And not to you, Mother.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Rose darted a worried glance toward the cowboy, whose hands fisted in front of his oversize belt buckle. “What choice do you have?”

“I’m not sure.” Sara turned to the attorney. “Can you give me directions to the ranch?”

“I’ll write them down,” he said, and with obvious relief, disappeared into the back office.

“What kind of game are you playing?” Her mother pointed a French-tipped finger at Sara. “We both know you’re desperate for money. You don’t belong on that ranch.” Rose’s tone was laced with condescension. “She had no business leaving it to you.”