All For A Cowboy. Jeannie Watt
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.
Shae McArthur didn’t appear to do well with ugly, and he was going to use that to his advantage. He had to concede, though, that she’d made no attempt to hide the fact that she had been staring at his injuries. There were none of the darting glances that he’d come to expect as people attempted to wrap their minds around the extent of his injuries without appearing rude—and a part of Jordan kind of appreciated her openness. At least she was honest. The scars were there and she didn’t pretend they weren’t.
And she didn’t pretend they didn’t bother her, either.
Okay. One point for Shae for honesty.
But he was still taking his shirt off whenever he could.
Jordan unloaded his brand-new cheap tent, the sleeping bag he’d used on his cross-country trek, a box of groceries and his duffel bag of clothes, then proceeded to carry them around the windfall and load them onto the sturdy rubber-wheeled gardening wagon he’d bought. At almost two hundred dollars, it had all but wiped out his cash supply, but there was no way he’d be carrying much weight on his back and he figured the wagon would come in handy around the ranch.
Clyde instantly got the hang of what was going on and jumped up on top of the gear Jordan had piled into the wagon, his small body lurching and swaying when Jordan started pulling. Only a mile. No sweat.
Except that the wagon was heavy. He wasn’t used to the altitude and despite working out as much as his body would allow, he was gasping for air by the time the ranch came into view. The sun was starting to set and he still had a lot to do.
But at least he was alone.
It wasn’t until he’d unloaded everything into a pile that Jordan realized he’d left his pills in the car. He was not going back—it would be a pill-free night. If he didn’t sleep, tough. He wasn’t exactly a stranger to sleepless nights. And if he had a nightmare, the only one he’d disturb was Clyde—who was sticking to him like glue now that it was getting dark. Jordan didn’t know what kind of shape the house was in, and since he didn’t want to share with rodents, he started setting up his tent. If the fabric had been any thinner, it would have qualified as disposable, but it was all he’d been able to afford after the wagon purchase, and if the zipper worked, he could keep the rain off and the mosquitoes at bay.
He and Clyde had shared a couple of hamburgers prior to driving back to the camp, but now he was hungry again. Apparently Montana air was good for him, because food hadn’t been any kind of priority over the past year—just something he needed for survival. Until recently chewing had felt awkward and uncomfortable as the skin on his face healed, so he hadn’t taken much pleasure in food. Now he wished he had another burger. Instead he made do with a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich made by the light of a battery-operated lantern.
Feeling ridiculously exhausted after dragging the wagon to the ranch, he laid out his sleeping bag and settled on top of it, letting the sounds of the wilderness lull him. He didn’t expect to sleep that night—not easily, anyway—because sleep was never easy without the meds, but at least he could listen to the sounds of his childhood instead of the traffic on the thoroughfare near his Virginia apartment.
Clyde appeared to prefer the traffic noises. After nervously pacing the tent for at least ten minutes, snuffling the air and trying to see through the nylon at what was causing the fascinating noises outside, the poodle finally turned a few circles and collapsed in a curly heap against Jordan’s side. His eyes remained stubbornly open, though, fixed on the tent door. Jordan reached down to idly ruffle the hair on the poodle’s head, then a few seconds later his hand relaxed on the dog’s warm body.
That was the last thing Jordan remembered.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст