Christine Rimmer - The Man Who Had Everything

He buzzed his assistant and told her to send flowers and a fruit basket up to Melanie’s suite, rattling off another apology to go on the card.

After that, well, he hoped Melanie McFarlane would find another suitable property real damn soon and quit waiting around for him to change his mind.

Grant said good-night to the investor group at a little after eleven and went to his suite.

He started to change into an old pair of sweats, thinking he’d have a drink or two, watch the late news and hope that the alcohol would ease him to sleep. But then, what do you know?

He ended up reaching for his Wranglers instead.

The stables were closed at that time of night. He could have dragged the head groom from sleep with a call. There were, after all, certain privileges that went with being the boss—among them, the right to inconvenience the help.

But as much as the idea of a midnight horseback ride appealed to his troubled mind right then, the Range Rover was faster. And he didn’t have to wake anybody to get to it, since it was always ready and waiting in his private space in the main lodge’s underground garage.

He made it to the ranch house in twenty minutes flat, pulling into the circular dirt driveway, cutting his engine and dousing the headlights as he rolled up opposite the porch.

For a minute or two, he just sat there, staring at the darkened house where he’d grown up, at the small pool of brightness cast by the porch light, at the bugs recklessly hurling themselves against the bare bulb beneath the plain tin fixture. Bart appeared from the shadows at the end of the porch, tail wagging, sniffing the air in a hopeful way. Never had been much of a guard dog, that mutt.

Grant got out of the vehicle. He shut the car door as quietly as he could and went to sit on the steps with the old dog. Bart sniffed at him a bit and then flopped down beside him, yawning hugely and resting his head on his front paws with a low, contented whine. Grant petted the dog as he pondered what exactly he hoped to accomplish, showing up there in the middle of the night when the house was shut up tight and all sane ranch folk were sound asleep in their beds.

Rufus emerged from the bunkhouse across the yard, long johns showing up ghostly white through the shadows, the dark length of a shotgun visible in his right hand. Grant gave him a wave. After a second or two, Rufus waved in return and went back inside.

More time went by. Five minutes? Ten? Grant didn’t bother to check his watch. He just sat there with Bart, his arms looped around his spread knees, knowing that eventually the door behind him would open and a soft, husky voice would ask him what he was doing there.

It happened, finally: the click of the lock and the soft creak of the door as she pulled it inward. Then another, louder creaking as she came through the screen. She shut it with care. Bare feet brushing lightly on the porch boards, she approached and sat beside him.

He didn’t look at her. Not at first. There was her scent on the night and the warmth of her body next to his. It was more than enough.

She spoke first. “So…what’s up?”

He looked down at her slender feet. “You forgot your slippers.”

She made a small sound. It might have been a chuckle. Then she said, “Mom lectured me.”

“For what?”

“She told me I was too hard on you. She said Clifton’s Pride is your place to sell as you see fit, that you’ve always been so good to us and I should be more grateful.”

He shrugged, looking out at the night again, listening to the long, lost wail of a lone coyote somewhere out there in the dark. On his other side, Bart stirred, woofed softly, then dropped his head back on his paws again. “You tell her how I laid you down on that blanket and kissed you—how I almost did a whole lot more than just kissing?”

She made a sound that could only be called a snort. “Oh, please. She’s my mom. Some things a mom doesn’t need to know—and besides, Grant Clifton, you weren’t the only one doing the kissing. You weren’t the only one who wanted to do a whole lot more.”

He looked at her then. So beautiful, it pierced him right to the core, her gold hair tangled, eyes a little droopy from sleep, wearing an old sweater over a skimpy pajama top, and wrinkled pajama bottoms printed with sunflowers. “Feisty,” he said.

She snorted again. “I am not—and never have been—feisty.”

“Right.”

“Next you’ll be calling me spunky.”

“Never.”

“You call me spunky, I’m out of here.”

“I won’t call you spunky. Ever.” He raised a hand, palm out. “I swear it.”

“See that you don’t—and I guess I might as well tell you the rest of what Mom said.”

He looked out at the dark yard again. “Guess you might as well.”

“She said she can see how it would be hard for you to tell us how you’re selling the ranch, because you care about us and you don’t want us hurting and you know how much we’ve loved being here. Mom says I should look in my heart and find a little kindness and understanding there. And you know what?” She waited till he turned his gaze her way and arched a brow. “Now I’ve had a little time to stew over it, I think Mom’s right. I really hate when that happens.”

He wanted to touch her—to reach out and smooth her hair, maybe guide a few wild strands behind her ear, to brush her cheek with the back of his hand.

But he didn’t. He knew one touch would never be enough.

She said, “See, all I’ve ever wanted is my own ranch to run. I kind of let myself forget that this place isn’t mine, you know?”

“I know.”

“So…forgive me for being so thoughtless and cruel to you?” She stuck out a hand. “Shake on it.”

He took her hand. Mistake. Because then, he couldn’t stop himself from turning it over and pressing a kiss in the warm, callused heart of her palm.

“Oh, Grant…” she whispered on an indrawn breath.

He made himself release her. It was a real hard thing to do. “There’s nothing to forgive.”

“Oh. See, now. Of course, you would say that.”

“I’m not just saying it. It’s the truth.”

She started arguing. “But—”

“Wait.”

“What?”

“Steph…” He sought the words—and found them, somehow. “I’m never going to be…the right guy for you. Whatever we might have together, it wouldn’t be a forever kind of thing. I just…don’t want that.”

“That?” She looked confused.

He elaborated, “I don’t want marriage. Kids. All that. I’m not…my dad, you know?”

“I never thought you were.”

“What I mean is, I’m not like him. I’m not…the salt of the earth. Not a family man. What I want, it’s not what you want. When I was a kid, I thought it was. I told myself all I needed in life was a chance to walk in my dad’s big, muddy boots. But that was a lie. A lie to please him—and to please me, too, I suppose. Because I loved him and wished I could be like him. Because the world is built on men like him.”

“He was a fine man.”

“Yeah. The best. But I’m not him and I never will be. I’m…restless inside, you know? I want to be out there, mixing it up, meeting new people, making things happen. I always knew, deep down, that I had more talent for business than for running cattle. I loved every minute of business school—the whole time telling myself and my dad that I planned to use what I’d learned to help keep Clifton’s Pride in the black. But what I really wanted, what I dreamed of, is what I have now. I like the fast life. I like the progress a few around these parts hate. I enjoy my designer suits and high-powered meetings. I like making money. I like being single. And I plan to stay that way.”