Cowboy Strong. Stacy Finz
out the details but we have plans. Big plans.”
Gina liked the spirit of it, but Dry Creek Ranch was pretty off the beaten track. Turning it into a destination would need more than a few cutesy country stores. Maybe a theme park, like Knott’s Berry Farm, but her gut told her Sawyer and his cousins would never go for that.
Who would?
“Why do you want to turn it into a destination?” Gina had gotten the impression that the Daltons only cared about raising cattle. At least that’s how Sawyer had made it sound when he’d snidely pointed out that the ranch wasn’t a resort.
Thanks, Captain Obvious.
Charlie exchanged a glance with Aubrey and let out a breath. Clearly, they were deliberating on what or what not to say. For all intents and purposes she was a stranger, after all.
“We’d like the ranch to bring in more money,” Aubrey finally said, trying to sound as if it wasn’t critical, which only made Gina think it was.
“Money’s good.” She gave a nonchalant shrug. The Daltons’ finances were their business, not hers. And currently she was the last person to give advice.
She ran her hand over a cowhide ottoman to see if it was genuine, which of course it was, and moved on to a sofa that was upholstered in a complementary fabric to the club chair.
“How hard would it be to move all these pieces to the cabin?” She waved her hand at the collection. If she was going to be here for a few weeks she might as well furnish the place in stuff she loved, instead of the whole homeless encampment theme the former tenant had going on.
“Not hard,” Charlie said. “I could borrow Jace’s truck and between all of us we could carry everything.”
Gina rummaged through her wallet for her gold card. “Let’s do it.”
A few hours later, she sat in her new living room, admiring the changes. They’d managed to heft the old sofa into Jace’s truck for a dump run. The cabin still suffered from neglect and someone’s love of dirty beige. But the couch, chair, and ottoman were fabulous.
At two, she loaded her BMW and made the short drive to Sawyer’s. As usual, the front door was unlocked and she let herself in, hugging a boneless lamb shoulder and a bag of groceries.
Sawyer sat at the center island with his laptop. He lifted his gaze as she came in and went back to whatever he was doing.
She scanned the kitchen. “Do you have a tagine?”
“I left my last one in Morocco.” He rolled his eyes.
“How ’bout a Dutch oven?” She didn’t wait for him to answer and searched his cabinets, finding a nine-quart Le Creuset pot. “This’ll work.”
He shut the laptop and peered at her over his coffee mug. “What’s for dinner?”
“Spiced lamb tagine with couscous and a chickpea salad.” She found a cutting board in one of the drawers, put it on the counter, and eyed his plaid Carhartt short-sleeved shirt. “I see you have clothes on today.”
“Disappointed?”
The truth? Yes. He had lots of faults—crabby personality, for one—but the man had an extremely fine chest. Broad, bronzed, and cut. The rest of him wasn’t too shabby, either. Thick dark hair that begged for fingers, blue eyes that reminded her of a trip she’d taken to the Aegean Sea, and a body that was made for sin. Okay, she’d ripped that last line off from Working Girl, but it definitely applied to Sawyer.
“Not on your life, bucko.”
“Bucko?” He arched a brow, then turned his attention to the groceries she was spreading out on the countertop. “For the tagine, I presume. Didn’t know you did Middle Eastern food.”
“Just playing around with some new ideas.” For her show, everything had to be Italian, so it was nice to try something else for a change. Then there was the fact that there was nothing better to do here than cook. Unless, of course, she counted watching the toppling of her hard-won empire. She might as well test recipes. “I’ve got to let the lamb come to room temperature. It’ll take about an hour.”
In the meantime, she got to work on the chickpea salad, sliding a glance every now and again to Sawyer, who’d once again become engrossed in his laptop.
“What’s so interesting?” she asked.
“Working on a few things.” He flipped the cover down again, got up, and stuck his head in the fridge. “How long until that’s done?” He bobbed his head at the lamb.
“At least two hours, I’m afraid.” She shoved him out of the way, opened the fridge, and peered inside. There wasn’t a whole lot there, not even the leftovers from her soufflé. “I could make you a couple of eggs.”
“Nah, I’m not that hungry. The fridge thing is out of force of habit. I had a big breakfast over at Jace and Charlie’s after we moved the cattle this morning.”
“I saw you,” she said. “You woke me up.”
He looked at her and shook his head. “In the immortal words of my grandfather, ‘This ain’t no country club.’ Get used to it, princess.”
He let his eyes wander over her cutoffs. She couldn’t tell whether he was sneering or checking her out. Whatever. She didn’t care, she told herself, and finished making her chickpea salad.
“You have any plastic wrap?”
He got off the stool, rummaged through one of the drawers, and pulled out a box. She covered the salad and stowed it in the refrigerator.
“You don’t ever have to go into an office?” she asked, wondering how his journalism job worked.
“Nope. I’m freelance, so I mostly work from home when I’m not on assignment.”
“What does an assignment entail, exactly?” Most of the journalists she’d had experience with considered camping on her front lawn an assignment. She considered it trespassing.
“I spent much of last year embedded with Special Forces in Afghanistan. The year before, I lived in India for three months while working on a piece about sex trafficking and two months in Brazil, chronicling the start-up of a fair-trade coffee plantation owned by the workers. It just depends on what the story is and how deep my editor wants me to go.”
“It sounds dangerous.”
“Sometimes. Sometimes it’s following a politician around and sleeping in a Marriott every night.”
“And you moonlight as a cowboy.”
“Not moonlight.” He jutted his chin at her. “Cowboying is a way of life. It’s what my family has done for more than a hundred years. It’s what we’ll continue to do long after I’m gone.”
Journalist-cowboy. Interesting combination, Gina thought. “Not your dad?” Gina had only met Dan Dalton a few times; she mostly worked with Wendy. But he was about as citified as you could get. Designer suits and shoes that had never touched a cow patty.
“Nope. My grandfather swore that ranching skipped a generation. Unlike his children, his grandkids were infected with the bug.”
“And turning the ranch into a business court…you’re okay with that?”
Sawyer jerked his head in surprise. “How’d you hear about that?”
“Charlie and Aubrey.” She didn’t think she was divulging secrets. Aubrey had made it seem that everyone in the Dalton clan was onboard with the idea.
“Let’s just say it’s a necessary evil to keep the place running.”
“I thought beef was a billion-dollar industry.” She put her hands on her hips, enjoying turning his own words on him. Just a reminder that she could out-condescend him any day of the week.
“It