Cowboy Strong. Stacy Finz
hook you up.” Sawyer kept walking.
“Why do you hate me?”
He stopped and turned around to face her. “I don’t hate you, I don’t even know you. But to be real honest, you haven’t made the best impression. You seem pretty damn self-entitled, if you ask me. This isn’t a resort: It’s a working cattle ranch. And I’m not your servant. The only reason you’re still here is because I love my mother. She’s a pain in the ass, but there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for her.”
She started to respond and he held up his hands. “I haven’t slept in three days. I’m going home now. If you need your car—which, by the way, prevents me from parking in my own garage—just follow the dirt road we took to get here. There’s a grocery store and a coffee shop in Dry Creek, thirteen miles from here off the highway, when you get hungry.”
He got in his Range Rover, discovered he’d hit that point where he was too exhausted to sleep, and headed to Jace’s ranch house instead. Sawyer was greeted with a snout in his crotch by Sherpa, Jace’s Australian shepherd. Scout, the other mutt, rolled on his back for a belly scratch. Sawyer obliged, then let himself in the back door.
“Anyone home?” The house was unusually quiet.
“In here,” Jace called from his study.
Sawyer found him behind his desk, staring at a spreadsheet. He sank into the sofa. “Where is everyone? And what are you working on?”
“Ranch expenses.” Jace looked up from his paperwork and rubbed his hand down his face. “Charlie’s with Aubrey at a flea market. Travis and Grady are at friends. How was your trip?”
“Good, until I got home.”
Jace laughed. “Your mom called. I know all about your houseguest. I never heard of her, but Charlie and Aubrey went nuts. They say she’s a big deal. Has a cooking show, huh?”
“Yep, or rather she had a cooking show.”
Jace nodded. “Though your ma didn’t get into too many details, it was clear this DeRose woman is on the tabloids’ shit list.”
“She’s probably on everyone’s shit list. Have you met her yet?”
Jace jerked his head in surprise. “Last night for a few minutes, after I gave her the key to your place. She seemed more than pleasant. Friendly, self-deprecating. Likes dogs.”
Sawyer didn’t think they were talking about the same person. “That must’ve been her nicer twin. I moved her to Cash’s old cabin. Hope you’re okay with that.”
“It’s vacant.” Jace hitched his shoulders. “Better her than varmints.”
Sawyer leaned back on the couch. “I’m not so sure about that. Unlike you, I had a different experience. Only thirty minutes in her presence and I already can’t stand her.”
Jace chuckled. “How long is she staying?”
“I’ve got no idea. I guess until her troubles blow over and there’s a new celebrity scandal for the public to obsess over. As long as she keeps out of my way, I don’t care.”
Sawyer bobbed his head at Jace’s spreadsheet. “You figure out how to pay for this place yet?”
The Daltons had always been cattle ranchers. But when the drought came, Grandpa Dalton had been forced to cull the herd. Now, Sawyer and his two cousins ran about a hundred head. The income it generated wasn’t enough to cover the expenses of the taxes, insurance, and upkeep on 500 acres. Their goal this summer was to find sustainable ways the ranch could bring in more money.
“Working on it,” Jace said. “A lot will depend on how well Charlie and Aubrey’s home goods store and design studio does. If the business takes off and brings traffic to the ranch, we’ll have a better chance of leasing out space to other shops.”
Sawyer wasn’t thrilled with the idea. He didn’t want a business park on the unspoiled land that had been in the Dalton family for four generations. But he supposed it was better than developing the property and turning it into a gated community of mini-mansions, swimming pools, and clubhouses. Or even worse: A Sam’s Club with a giant parking lot.
“Let’s make sure these shops have an agritourism vibe and not an outlet center feel.”
“You think Cash and I would do that? Give me a break, Sawyer. We’re looking at Harris Ranch as a model.”
Besides producing something like 150 million pounds of beef a year, the Harris family had turned their San Joaquin Valley cattle ranch and feedlot into an attraction for motorists traveling between Southern and Northern California. They offered luxury lodging, dining, and a gift shop. The whole setup had become a California institution, as well as a license to mint money.
“A bit of a tall order, don’t you think?” Sawyer stretched out, hanging his boots off the edge of the couch. “What makes Harris Ranch work is that it’s halfway between San Francisco and Los Angeles and there’s nothing else for miles. Dry Creek isn’t on the way to anywhere.”
Jace wadded up a piece of paper and threw it at Sawyer. “Whatever happened to your standard ‘Go big, or go home’? We’re on the route to Reno. Best ski resorts in California are only an hour away. But you don’t have to be so literal about it. I’m using Harris Ranch in theory. We’re not talking about building a one-hundred-fifty-room inn or a steak house. Just businesses that subscribe to the ranching way of life that’ll attract tourists and locals.”
“Like what?”
“Hell, I don’t know. That’s what we’re trying to figure out.”
“Maybe we could become a halfway house for disgraced celebrity chefs.”
Jace’s lips twitched at Sawyer’s sneer. “She really got under your skin, didn’t she?”
“She’s a piece of work. Threw a bag at me because she didn’t like her accommodations. The woman’s lucky I didn’t throw her out in the street and drop a dime to a food blogger friend of mine at Eater.”
“I don’t think your folks would be too thrilled with that. But we have some horse stalls that need mucking if you want her to earn her keep.”
The idea appealed to Sawyer. Nothing like shoveling horse shit to bring a person down to earth. “Hopefully, she won’t be here long. My gut tells me after a few days in the heat without air-conditioning, she’ll pack up and book herself into a Ritz-Carlton somewhere.”
Sawyer’s stomach growled. Besides some nuts and pretzels on the plane, he hadn’t had a real meal since leaving the UK. “You got anything to eat?”
“I think there’s some leftover meat loaf in the fridge. Help yourself.”
Sawyer got to his feet and wandered into the kitchen. It was the best room in the house, which was saying a lot, because the log rancher was a showstopper. His grandfather had spared no expense on the house, with its thirty-five-foot high ceilings, enormous stone fireplaces, rough-hewn log walls, and enough windows to take in views of the foothills on four sides.
Jace had grown up in the ranch house and had been raised by their grandparents after his mother, father, and baby brother had been killed by a drunken driver on Highway 49.
Although Sawyer had grown up in Los Angeles, he’d spent much of his youth sitting at the massive center island in this room, sneaking his grandmother’s home-baked cookies from the pantry before dinner, and eating countless pancake breakfasts with his cousins. As kids, he and his sister, Angela, spent every holiday and summer at the ranch.
Dry Creek had always felt more like home than his parents’ sprawling Beverly Hills compound.
He found the meat loaf and a bowl of leftover mashed potatoes, fixed a plate, and heated it in the microwave. While waiting, he nursed a bottle of beer. It looked like his afternoon nap was on hold. Probably better to stay awake until his regular bedtime