Jeannie Watt - All For A Cowboy

Jordan nodded and as he started toward the stairs, he caught the quick look Miranda sent the big cowboy. “Stay here and listen for trouble,” it clearly said. He felt like saying there wouldn’t be trouble, but refrained, playing the game. If Miranda could do it, so could he. He hoped.

The upstairs was no more recognizable than the first floor. There was another stone fireplace, more hardwood and tile. Expensive furniture.

“Let’s talk here,” she said, taking a seat on one of the sofas.

“Fine.” He sat on the sofa opposite of hers, his eyes never leaving her face.

“I’m glad to see you’re recovering from your accident,” she said, tilting her head to better see his injured face. “I wish you would have accepted our offer to come home and recuperate.”

Made just before his father had passed away, when he’d still had months of hospital therapy ahead of him. He hadn’t heard one word from her after his father had passed.

“What’s going on with the High Camp, Miranda?” His voice was low, but steady, which was nothing short of a miracle considering the amount of adrenaline coursing through his body.

“You mean why is Shae McArthur there?” Miranda leaned back against her cushion, stretching an arm along the back of the sofa. “Because she’s working on a proposal for the property and I’m eager to see what she comes up with.”

At which point in the conversation, he was probably supposed to explode.

Surprise, Miranda...I’m not going to give you the satisfaction.

Flicking a piece of lint off his sleeve, he said, “I mean, why on my property without consulting me?”

A tiny smile began to play at the edges of Miranda’s mouth as she seemed to realize that her opponent was of a higher caliber than she’d anticipated. “I inherited the operations lease from your father.”

Jordan kept his expression as blank as possible, watching for Miranda’s reaction to his lack of reaction. Nothing. “Will you be farming?”

“No. I’m looking at creating a satellite guest ranch there.”

Jordan’s pulse spiked and he knew from Miranda’s expression that she’d observed and noted his reaction. One point for her.

“What makes you think you have a right to do anything but farm the place?”

Miranda gave an exaggerated shrug. “Because upon reading the lease, I noticed that it said, ‘operations.’ It didn’t say, ‘farm operations.’ Simply ‘operations.’”

“The lease was written for farming.”

“Then it was written poorly, because it is not exclusive to farming,” Miranda said. “And there’s also that recreational-use clause. I’ll have my lawyer send a copy if you don’t believe me. Should it go to you or...?”

“Emery Anderson.” Who would no doubt confirm what she’d just said, but maybe he could also find a loophole.

“As you wish. And, as you no doubt recall,” she said smoothly, “the lease is for twenty years. There are twelve years left on the contract.”

Jordan focused on the spotless glass coffee table in front of him, the muscles in his jaw tightening as he considered twelve years of battling Miranda. Which was exactly what she was counting on. That and his losing control. If he did, then Miranda would win the first battle—and the big cowboy waiting downstairs would probably feed him the floor. Slowly he raised a steely gaze back up to his former stepmother.

“You understand that you can’t interfere with my operations on the place,” she said.

“And you can’t interfere with my occupancy,” he replied. “You have right to some of the buildings—”

“All of the buildings.”

“Only those south of the east-west fence line. Not the house.”

Miranda’s pale red eyebrows drew together. “Have you been reading the lease contract?” she asked curiously.

“I’m not that out of it or damaged or whatever the hell you think I am. When I found Shae there, I decided to check into things.”

“You were fast.”

“I’ve learned from experience it doesn’t pay to be slow when you’re involved.”

“Would you be interested in selling?” she asked, as if he hadn’t spoken. Jordan had fully expected a buyout offer, but he hadn’t expected it today. He’d figured she’d attempt to drive him out first. “I’ll pay you market value, which might not be as high as you like, but would easily give you enough to buy elsewhere.” She cocked her head, her red hair sliding over her shoulder. “Away from the memories. I recall that you don’t much care for this ranch in its present incarnation and you probably won’t like the High Camp after I get done with it.”

“No.”

“You don’t like the ranch?”

“I’m not selling.”

“Don’t be hasty, Jordan. Think about your future. Don’t let stubbornness cause you to make the wrong decision. It won’t be easy to sell the place, encumbered as it is, if at some point in the future you find you don’t like living there. And if it comes to that—” she gave an elegant shrug “—my offer may not be so generous.”

Jordan got to his feet, glanced around the room, which had at one time held exactly one worn sofa, reloading and fly-tying equipment, and leather tools. There’d been a time he’d associated this room with his dad. No more. The woman had wiped all signs of Hank Bryan out of this house.

Miranda stood and calmly met his eyes. “Think about my offer, Jordan. It makes sense. Staying at the High Camp will only continue to remind you of everything you’ve been so open about despising. You know...the things that have made this ranch a viable operation.” She took a step forward, as if she were going to touch him, and Jordan automatically stepped back. “I can help you find another place. I have the resources.”

His anger began to rise, but he choked it back down. “Thanks,” he said flatly as he turned to go.

“If you change your mind, the offer stands.” He didn’t slow down, gave no indication of having heard her, taking the stairs two at a time and then walking past the bodyguard and receptionist without looking at either one of them.

Oh, yeah. He was certain the offer would stand. And just as certain that he wasn’t taking it. Miranda had won every throwdown between them. She wasn’t winning this one.

“Jordan!”

He stopped on the porch and turned to see Miranda behind him. She must have taken the steps two at a time herself. “What?”

“My lawyer and I will be in contact. Soon. Just so we understand one another. And in the meantime...cooperate with Shae.”

* * *

THE ONLY THING Jordan didn’t buy on his supply list was a chain saw to take care of the tree in the road. He recalled an ancient McCulloch at the ranch—if he could find it, he’d try to get it running. If not, he was fairly certain that Miranda would see to it that the log was removed. After all, she was the operator of this ranch...for now.

When he reached the log, he parked the Subaru a few feet away from it in the middle of the road and then started unloading his purchases, wondering if Shae was going to risk her Audi again tomorrow. She’d obviously reversed all the way back down the road earlier today. He’d seen where she had finally found a spot wide enough to turn around, and he’d also seen the numerous places where the car had slid into the deep ruts. Seeing the marks in the dirt had given him a sense of satisfaction. No one should drive an Audi on a road like this and if they did, they deserved what they got.

So what was he going to do when Shae showed up again?

He figured the first thing he should do was to take off his shirt. She’d been openly shocked when she’d seen the fingers that had been amputated by shrapnel and then burned by the flash of the explosion. The burns continued up his forearm, around his side and onto his back, where the worst scars lay, and the deep-tissue skin grafts were still healing. Remarkably, the majority of his shoulder had been spared, so he had mobility there, and the burns up his face were for the most part superficial. If you could count losing part of his ear as superficial. No grafts had been necessary there, but the damaged skin was red and shiny in places. Ugly.