Cowboy Proud. Kelli Ireland
lowered the jug, glaring at his brother. “I won’t taste anything for a week.”
“Sucks to be microwave challenged.”
Blowing through his nose, Cade flipped his brother off even as Reagan closed in on him.
“How bad is it?” she demanded, wrapping a hand around his neck and pulling him down so she could examine his mouth and throat.
“Not that bad.” He pulled against her grip, but she refused to let go.
“Let me see, Cade. No reason to fight me on this if you’re sure it’s nothing.”
Cade closed his eyes and shook his head. “I’m fine, Reagan.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
He extricated himself, stepping away. “I burned my mouth, but my brain’s only singed. It’ll be fine. I’ll just finish up and get to work.”
She tucked her thumbs in her jeans’ pockets. “Whatever suits you.”
Eyeing her warily, Cade forked up another bite but blew on it for a good bit before sticking it in his mouth. “Like I said, that would be getting back to work,” he said around the food.
Eli pulled Reagan into his arms again, settling her against his chest. “What’s on your schedule this afternoon?”
Cade shoveled the food in faster.
“It’s not so much this afternoon as it is the next couple of weeks that’ll be hell. Got news this morning the interior decorators won’t be here with their semi-truck load of furniture until the day before our first guests arrive. Means we’ll all have to pitch in to assemble what isn’t already put together. Then we’ll have to get the rooms set up, beds made, that kind of stuff.”
Reagan’s eyes widened slightly. “That’s cutting it pretty close.”
“There’s absolutely no room for error, but there’s no other option,” he muttered around his last mouthful of lunch. “Can’t make them get here any faster. I tried.” He tossed the container and fork into the sink, the loud clatter startling in the heavy silence.
Reagan stepped out of Eli’s arms and began rinsing the dishes and putting them in the dishwasher. “We’re having a group lesson on loading the dishwasher soon.”
Cade grimaced. “Sorry.”
She waved him off. “I actually came in because I wanted to follow up with you guys on the invitations I sent out for the inaugural cattle drive. Anyone have the head count as of today’s mail run? I haven’t heard from the PR company since Friday. I swear, we need to invest in better internet service. We could’ve handled all this so much faster than with rural post.”
“It’s Sunday. Mail doesn’t run,” Cade offered.
“You know it’s bad when you don’t even realize what day it is anymore,” Reagan grumbled.
Eli moved toward the small built-in desk. “Paper invitations are more personal. That’s what Michael Anderson, our contact from the public relations firm, advised, and we’re paying a pretty penny for his professional opinion. Regardless, I can give you the head count as of last night.” He pulled a worn Day-Timer his way. Absently flipping through several pages, he stopped and did a quick tally. “We have confirmations from twelve of the fifteen, and one regret. Leaves us waiting for the last two responses.”
Cade rolled his shoulders. Eli had won the argument about hiring a PR firm. Cade wasn’t sure why they’d paid the company so much money to put together a freaking guest list, but he’d given up the argument, keeping his mouth shut about that at this point. “Hard to believe that the moment all those folks show up, the Bar C won’t exist anymore.”
“She will,” Eli countered fiercely. “She always will. She’s ours.” He dropped his head to his chest. They stood in the ensuing silence, each of them surely lost to their own thoughts. Then his chin snapped up. “It’s like introducing her with a pseudonym for publicity purposes. She deserved something catchy, and Lassos & Latigos Dude Ranch is perfect for those who haven’t met her yet.”
Closing his eyes, Cade let his head fall back. “I still can’t believe you guys took me seriously on that name. I was joking.”
“It is sort of catchy.” The smile in Reagan’s voice rang clear.
“So, about the guests who haven’t responded?” Cade asked. “Do we chalk them off or plan on them showing up unannounced on opening—”
The phone rang, the jangle of the old bell ringer loud enough to nearly knock Cade out of his socks.
Reagan jerked her chin toward the phone. “Grab that, would you? My hands are wet and Eli’s lost in the guest list again. Could be a verbal RSVP.”
He hesitated, the idea of talking to a “guest” somewhat daunting.
Then he yanked the phone’s receiver off the wall.
* * *
“HELLO?”
The gruff voice infused that one word, an alleged greeting, with undisguised caution, throwing Emmaline Graystone off guard. “Hello?”
In the background, dishes clattered in a sink.
Did Michael give me the wrong number? Emma glanced at the invitation, and then checked the display on her smartphone. Nope. Right number.
Her business partner had handled this account save for a couple of phone calls she’d taken in his absence. For those, she’d talked to a man named Eli. He’d been cultured, polished and incredibly professional. This was clearly not the same man.
“Hello?” that deep male voice repeated, his impatience impossible to misinterpret.
“Hello...hi. Um, I’m...” She blew out a soft breath and squared her shoulders. “This is Emmaline Graystone. I’m with Top Priority Publicity, the public relations firm hired by Lassos & Latigos to guide the ranch through it’s inaugural—”
“I’m well aware of what your firm has been hired to do, Ms. Graystone. But I was under the impression Eli had been dealing with a man by the name of Michael Anderson.”
“Michael is the firm’s vice president and has been handling the account, yes. But he’s involved in another project where the opening date was unexpectedly moved up and has left him pressed for time. With your grand opening quickly approaching, I offered to take over your account.”
“You familiar with our account?” The Voice asked.
She lifted her chin a fraction and stared at the barren horizon. “I’m the firm’s president and owner. I’ve been through your account files extensively, and I fully understand the direction Michael had been taking things. He’s done a good job. I can take it from here.”
“Glad to hear it.”
The perceptible smile in The Voice’s response irked her. “Do you have a problem with me assuming this account?”
“Nope. As long as you keep in mind the same principles we drilled into Michael, I don’t care who handles our account.”
Curious. She hadn’t seen anything in the notes about hardline principles to respect. “Which principles, precisely, are you referring to?”
“We want to keep the ranch family focused, make sure it doesn’t become a commercial machine but rather an intimate experience for each guest and every booking. Do that and I don’t care what kind of equipment’s parked behind your zipper.”
She blinked wide eyes. “Glad to hear it,” she said, mimicking The Voice’s dry tone. If this guy was a Covington, and if he would be interacting with ranch guests, they were all in trouble. He couldn’t speak to strangers—paying strangers—this way.
“You