Loree Lough - Sweet Mountain Rancher

“Better watch it, Quinn,” she said, locking the front door behind her, “because this exercising-your-rights stuff feels good enough to be habit-forming!”

CHAPTER FOUR

JOE SLOUCHED AGAINST the tufted red Naugahyde booth at Breakfast King, scrolling through the pictures Eden had taken at Pinewood. “I’ll bet this happened when they dragged the stove out the door,” he said, pointing at an image that showed a deep gouge in the kitchen’s door frame. His dark brows furrowed as he studied photos of curtain rods hanging from single screws and cabinet shelves that slanted at awkward angles. He turned off the camera and slid it to her side of the caramel Formica tabletop.

“Saying I’m sorry doesn’t begin to cut it,” he said. “I feel awful that the Hansons stuck you with that mess.”

Eden folded her napkin back and forth, back and forth, and fanned herself with the resulting paper accordion. “I’m sure you’ve faced situations like this before. Any idea what we’re looking at in repair costs?”

Joe shook his head as the waitress delivered their coffee.

“Thousands,” he said when the woman walked away. “Easily.”

Eden waited for him to empty two milks and three sugar packets into his mug before continuing. “So how does this work? Will you hire a contractor?”

He nearly dropped his spoon. “Me? Whoa. You expect me to foot the whole bill?”

Eden smoothed out her paper accordion. “In retrospect, I should have paid more attention to the Hansons. It’s my property, after all.” She met his eyes. “But as we discussed when I hired you, the nature of my job makes it difficult, at best, to get away. You told me not to give that another thought, because absentee landlords make up the bulk of your client list, and that it was your job to do periodic spot checks, to make sure tenants are living up to the conditions outlined by the lease. And that if they didn’t, we’d come to an agreement about repairs, in order to avoid arbitration.” She paused long enough for her words to sink in. “Remember?”

“Of course I remember.” Nodding, Joe stared into his mug. “I spent most of the night on the computer, trying to hunt down the Hansons.” He looked up. “Unfortunately, I didn’t have a bit of luck.”

She drew an invisible figure eight on the tabletop. “In other words, since you can’t find them, we can’t file a lawsuit.”

He winced slightly at the word. “Oh, if I kept looking, I could find them. Eventually. I used to be FBI, remember. But what’s the point?”

If he quoted the old “can’t squeeze blood from a turnip” cliché again, Eden didn’t know what she’d do. She pointed at her purse beside her on the seat. “I brought our contract, just in case we needed to refer to it.”

Smiling slightly, he nodded again. “Why am I not surprised.” Joe picked up his mug, put it right back down again. “Okay. I admit it. Somehow, we completely overlooked your property. I could make excuses, like it’s on the opposite side of town, or my regular guy quit and there wasn’t anyone in the office capable of doing the job. I’m embarrassed to admit that we screwed up big-time, but—”

His phone rang, and one glance at the screen was enough to cut his sentence short.

“Sorry, it’s my kid’s school. I have to take this.” He stood. “When the waitress gets here with our food, ask her to bring me some tomato juice, will ya?”

Eden went back to pleating the napkin. Her landlord wanted an answer. More accurately, he wanted to sell Latimer House, the sooner the better. A lot depended on whether or not Joe would do the right thing. She felt like a passenger in a leaky dinghy, sinking slowly, while a big storm loomed on the horizon.

“You’re up and at ’em early...”

Eden jumped, and then looked up into Nate’s smiling blue eyes. “I could say the same thing.”

“Had some early-morning appointments. Thought I’d grab a cup of coffee before heading back to the Double M.” He pointed over her left shoulder. “I’ve been sitting right over there.”

She glanced at the red counter stools behind her. He’d been near enough to hear everything she and Joe had discussed.

He slid into Joe’s seat. “I’m surprised you didn’t hear me back there, shuffling the pages of yesterday’s Denver Post . Bet I read the same article four times, trying to tune out what you guys were saying.”

“Oh, good grief. I’m so embarrassed.”

“Why?” Nate harrumphed. “That guy should be embarrassed, not you.”

The waitress delivered breakfast. “Coffee, sir?”

“Sure. Why not.”

When she left, Nate pointed at Joe’s food. “I saw your pal leave. Seems a shame to let perfectly good flapjacks go to waste.”

“See, that’s why I hate sitting with my back to the door.”

The waitress brought over his coffee and topped off Eden’s mug. “Thanks, hon,” he said.

“Hon? I haven’t heard that since I left Baltimore.”

“Yeah, it’s one of the few things I picked up out there that I can’t seem to put down.”

Eden smiled. “I always loved the way everybody used the term. Made the city seem so much friendlier.”

“Speaking of friendly, think your pal is off wheeling and dealing to spare himself a lawsuit?”

The idea made her laugh. “I bet he’s halfway to his office by now.”

“Well, good riddance to bad rubbish, I always say.”

“And I haven’t heard that one since grade school.”

Nate shrugged one shoulder. “It’s just as true today.”

“I don’t know if it’s fair to lump him in with the trash just yet.”

Nate returned her halfhearted smile. “So what’s your next move?”

Move. What a peculiar choice of word, considering what she and the boys might be doing in the very near future. She sighed. “It’d be easy to blame Joe for everything the tenants did to Pinewood, but there’s no escaping the fact that the house was—and is—my responsibility. I should have checked on things myself.”

“Still, he had contractual obligations. What if you lived in Chicago or San Francisco? Or Baltimore?” He grinned. “I really like that name, by the way. Pinewood has a homey ring to it.”

“That’s what my grandfather thought.” Eden had no sooner finished the sentence when her cell phone pinged. “Well, speak of the devil,” she said, opening the text.

Sorry to stick you w/tab. Son fell @ school, broke a tooth. Here’s my offer: Templeton Prop. Mgmt. will replace missing appliances, light fixtures, faucets, vanities. You make cosmetic repairs. If agreeable, call & I’ll recommend contractors.

She repeated the message to Nate, trying her best to sound lighthearted.

She could almost read Nate’s mind: Joe had all but ignored Pinewood; what made her think she could trust him now? If the answer affected her alone, it wouldn’t matter nearly as much. But the boys had put their trust in her . Why hadn’t she seen this coming, and done something to prevent it?

“Hard to believe a few measly words could solve so many problems, isn’t it?” she said, sliding the phone into her purse.

“Uh-huh.”

She took a sip of her coffee.

“Do you believe the guy this time?” Nate asked.

This time? Even a near stranger understood that Joe’s word was less than stellar.

“Aw, don’t pay any attention to me,” he added. “Ask anybody. I tend to rain on parades.”

“No, you made a valid point. To be honest, I don’t have a clue if he was sincere or not, or if something like a text message would stand up in court if he wasn’t.”

“I know a couple good contractors. How about I make a few calls for you? We can meet them at your grandparents’ house—your house—and see which one can give you the most for your money. And if that snake slithers out of his promise to share the costs, I’ll front you the money for repairs.”