The Inherited Twins. Cathy Thacker Gillen
you wouldn’t have to sell anything.”
Trying not to notice how pretty she looked in a dark-gold sweater and brown-and-gold paisley skirt, Heath nodded. “The problem is, according to the rates you’ve set for the rooms, that’s not going to happen, with the kind of occupancy you’ve got right now.”
She leaned back in her swivel chair. “We were at capacity for seven weeks this summer.”
Heath kept his eyes locked on hers. “And not even half occupied since September.”
A delicate flush highlighted her cheeks. “I put up a Web site, and that’s bringing in some business. But obviously I’ve got to do more, which is why I’ve written to every newspaper and magazine editor in the state and let them know we’re open for quiet R & R, family reunions, business retreats.”
“When did you do that?”
Resentment colored her tone. “I started sending out letters the end of August, the beginning of September, when things slowed down.”
A good move, but possibly not enough. “What’s the response been?” Heath asked.
The evasive look was back in her eyes. She started to rise. “Can I get you some coffee?”
He respected her too much to be anything less than forthright. He shook his head in answer to her question and said, “It’s not enough just to send out brochures.”
She sank back in her desk chair and rocked back and forth impatiently. “I’ve made phone calls, too.”
“Any results?”
She hedged. “All it would take is one good review in Southwestern Living magazine, or the travel section of a Houston or Dallas paper travel section, and I’d be fully booked in no time.”
“Even if you were to get good press right now, I’m afraid it might be too little too late.”
Claire massaged the back of her neck with both hands. “If we could just hang on until next spring, and be patient…”
Heath pretended not to notice the way her posture drew his attention to her curves. “Right now the ranch is operating anywhere from five hundred dollars a month in the black to five thousand dollars in the red.”
“I know.” Claire dropped her hands. A pleading note came into her voice. “But if you average those numbers over the nine months we’ve been open, I’m only short a thousand a month.”
He wished he could cut her a break. “What about the winter months coming up?” he inquired matter-of-factly. “Do you have bookings?”
Again she looked regretful. “Some.”
“How many?”
Claire sighed. “Not enough.”
Not nearly enough, he thought in disappointment, when she reluctantly showed him her list of reservations. “Is there any other way you can bring in money?”
She tilted her head and the subtle movement brought him the lavender scent of her perfume. “We had plans to turn the barn into a party facility, use it for wedding receptions and big parties, but Sven and Liz-Beth died before we could get started on that.”
It was a good idea. Unfortunately, it couldn’t happen fast enough. “You could charge for breakfast.”
Claire disagreed. “All the big hotel chains offer free breakfast with an overnight stay now. To stay competitive, I have to do that, too.”
Silence fell as they both stared at the numbers on the pages in front of them. “Is there any equipment you could sell—like a tractor or something—to temporarily add to the profits?”
“We liquefied everything we could when we were building the cottages. What little lawn we have mowed now, that isn’t xeriscaped or returned to the wild, is done by a rancher in the area.” Claire leaned forward, and Heath sensed it was all she could do not to grip his hands. “If I can get good press, more exposure, I can turn this around.”
Heath figured he could ask around at the bank, see if anyone at the other branches had any ideas, or was in a position to call in a favor. In the meantime, he would be straight with her. “You’ve got a little less than two weeks.”
Claire was unable to mask her disappointment. “And if I can’t manage to turn things around by then?” she asked warily.
He exhaled, hating to be the bearer of bad news to such a sweet woman. “Then we’re going to have to look at doing one of two things. Lease or sell at least part of the mineral rights to the ranch. Or sell off part—or all—of the twins’ share of the business.”
If he had to do either, Heath knew, she would end up resenting the heck out of him.
There’d be no more kisses.
No more confidences.
Not even the possibility of romance.
And that really stunk.
IT WAS NEARLY EIGHT in the evening by the time Heath left the bank, grabbed a bite to eat and got back to the Red Sage. As he pulled into the parking lot, real-estate broker Ginger Haedrick drew up beside him. They got out of their vehicles at the same time.
Ginger gestured toward the office, where lights were blazing. “What’s going on?”
Through the windows, Heath could see most of the other Red Sage guests milling around Claire. “I don’t know. Let’s find out.”
The two of them went over to the office.
When they walked in, Heidi and Henry looked up from the toy corner. They had obviously already had their baths, and were in their pajamas.
“Hey!” Henry’s face lit up. He elbowed his sister. “Look! It’s Mr. Fearsome.”
Heidi grinned, too. She plucked a picture book off the shelf and ran over to him. “Can you read us another story with voices?”
“We went to a party today,” Henry declared, ignoring his twin. “They had cake and everything.”
“Yeah.” Heidi clutched her storybook to her chest, and peered up at Heath. “We helped Buddy blow out the candles because he couldn’t do it all by himself.”
“That’s great.” Heath smiled.
Ginger looked over at the banquet table in the corner. It was covered with a gingham tablecloth as well as boxes of pizza, paper plates and napkins. An ice-filled washtub holding canned sodas sat on the floor next to it. “Y’all having a party?” she asked, in a tone that indicated if it were true, it wasn’t much of a celebration.
“We’re helping Claire make a sales video for the ranch,” Mr. Finglestein said. He and his wife were dressed identically in khaki trousers, plaid shirts and multi-pocketed canvas vests. Both had binoculars slung around their necks. The excitement in their eyes made them look younger than their fifty-something years.
Mrs. Finglestein nodded and indicated the jumble of cameras, cables and laptops connected to Claire’s computer. “We’re letting Claire use some of the footage we’ve shot while we’ve been birding.”
T. S. Sturgeon, the mystery writer on deadline, looked up from the yellow legal pad she was scribbling on. “I’m writing the copy.” She paused and considered Heath. “You have a nice voice. Deep. Resonant. Quietly authoritative. Maybe you should do some of the voice-overs.”
Mrs. Finglestein nodded. “It would be worth your while. If you help, you get a free night’s stay.”
Claire avoided Heath’s eyes. With good reason, he thought. Making the sales video was a good idea, but reducing her profits for the month even further by giving away free lodging was not.
“Ginger could give it a try, too,” T.S. said. “Maybe have both a man and a woman speaking.”
Mrs.