by Jeannie Watt
For a moment the two men simply stared at one another, and then Emery, his face screwed up into an expression of concern, said in his raspy voice, “You look like hell, Jordan.”
“Time has not been kind to you, either.”
A slow smile spread over the man’s face, almost but not quite masking the deep concern in his eyes. “Well, why are you standing there? Come on the hell into the house. I have cold beer.”
“I don’t drink anymore,” Jordan said as he tucked the lockbox under his arm and started for the gate. “Alcohol interacts with pain drugs, so I just quit.”
“Tea, then.”
Five minutes later Jordan had a jar of iced tea in front of him and was stirring sugar into the bitter brew. “Iced tea’s not supposed to be this strong,” he muttered as Emery read over the inheritance documents Jordan had given him, letting out an occasional snort.
“Don’t be a sissy,” Emery replied absently. He hadn’t asked about the accident, had barely acknowledged Jordan’s injuries other than telling him he looked like hell. And Jordan was thankful. He was tired of having the accident define him, tired of living the aftermath.
Emery gave one final snort and when he raised his eyes, Jordan instantly knew he’d been hosed. “How’d she do it and how bad is it?”
“It’s just a guess,” Emery said, scooting closer to Jordan so that he could point to a clause in the document. “But you see here where it says that while you’ve inherited Hank’s share of the common tenancy, all the leases will be honored?”
“That’s what it says?” He wasn’t stupid, but legalese was damned hard to follow, using twenty-five words to say what five could.
“Yeah. And my guess is that Miranda must have inherited Hank’s farm lease on the place.”
“Great,” Jordan said flatly. The lease had been made to protect Hank’s farming operations on the land they shared, and it’d only been made in case something happened to Jordan and Becky inherited.
“That makes no sense,” Jordan said, looking up from his drink. “What does she want with a farm lease? She encouraged Dad to stop farming our place when the guest ranch took off. I think they only raise enough hay to feed the livestock now.”
Emery shrugged. “Probably to keep you away from the place. It isn’t like you two got along.”
“No. She hates me.” And he returned the sentiment with enthusiasm.
“So you come back from the service—” Emery’s gaze lingered on Jordan’s injured hand for a moment “—plan to take up residency and, surprise, even if Hank were still alive, Miranda controls the operations on the land. Just another way to stick it to you.”
“Dad wouldn’t have let her do anything to me.”
“Not while he was alive.” Emery’s voice softened. “But he was sick off and on, you know.”
“I know. But why have her inherit the lease? Why screw me over?”
“He may not have known. It could have been one small clause in a new will he signed. Or it may not have happened at all.”
“No. Miranda wouldn’t do something without covering her butt legally—especially if I’m involved.” Jordan pushed the tea aside and pulled the box toward him. Pulling out another paper, he handed it to Emery. “The tenancy agreement.”
“I know this conveyance,” Emery said, unfolding the document. “I wrote it.” He skimmed it anyway before saying, “Standard tenancy in common. You and your dad owned the property equally. You both have—or, rather, had—the right to lease, rent or sell your half. Upon sale of the entire property, the proceeds are to be split evenly, which no longer matters since you inherited Hank’s part of the land.” Emery twisted one corner of his thick white mustache. “Do have a copy of the lease in that magic box of yours?”
“Yeah.”
“I didn’t write this agreement,” Emery said as he took the folded paper from Jordan. “Lucy was sick then.”
“I remember,” Jordan said. Emery’s wife had died not too long afterward, sending Emery into a tailspin. “That paralegal that hooked up with Lucy’s nurse wrote it.”
“Wonderful fellow, young Jasper.”
“Lucy’s nurse seemed to think so.”
“But her husband didn’t.” Emery scanned the paper. “Fairly straightforward. Hank leased the meadows and fields for operations. He had rights to the barn, the tool and equipment sheds, the equipment itself...everything south of the east-west fence line.” Emery waved his hand and read on silently. “He had rights to seasonal recreational use.” The old man cracked a smile and met Jordan’s eyes. “Damn, but I loved those hunting trips. Remember how fast Dr. Hartley could butcher a deer? And how Milton Dexter wore those damned electric socks that kept shorting out?”
“Oh, yeah,” Jordan said, even though he’d probably only been ten or eleven at the time. “Anything else in there?”
“You had to maintain fences to keep livestock out of the fields. Money would exchange hands yearly.” He looked up. “Have you gotten money?”
“A check went into the bank January first. I never got around to returning it.”
“That check may well be yours.”
“I don’t want it.”
“You may not have a choice.”
Jordan’s gut twisted. “I don’t get this. If Miranda has the farm lease, then why was Shae McArthur there? It isn’t like she’s going to jump on a tractor or anything.”
“I do remember Shae as being a bit too prim for farm work. Her sister, on the other hand...”
“Yeah. Liv was okay,” Jordan agreed absently. “Am I jumping the gun, Em? Any chance that she didn’t inherit and we’re reading a whole lot into this?”
“There’s a chance.” Emery’s frown deepened as he again studied Jordan’s face. Jordan knew he honestly did look like hell and it wasn’t because of the scars. The quick look he’d taken in the rearview mirror had startled him. Heavy stubble covered the unscarred part of his face and the lines around his eyes and mouth were deeper than before, his cheeks gaunter. He looked skeletal. He felt skeletal—as if everything that mattered had been stripped away, leaving him nothing but a shell of what had been and would probably never be again.
Jordan took a sip of the overly sweetened tea. “I’m going to have to talk to her.”
“Let me do it. As your lawyer.”
Whom he couldn’t pay. “No. I can handle this.”
“You don’t have to,” Emery repeated.
Jordan shot him a speaking look. “I know I look like I just stepped out of the asylum, but that’s what a cross-country trip and three breakdowns will do to a guy. I’m fine.” He somehow got the lie out while staring Emery down. It even sounded convincing. “All I want is the truth so that I know how to proceed.”
“Proceed with what?”
“Making Miranda miserable.”
“And yourself?”
Jordan scowled at the lawyer, not comprehending.
“Making Miranda miserable is going to come at a cost,” Emery explained.
“Believe it or not, I’m quite familiar with misery.”
“Yeah, boy, I bet you are,” the old man said softly, folding the documents and sliding them across the table. “Sorry I wasn’t in contact after the accident.”
Jordan dropped his gaze, studying the pit marks in the ancient mahogany table. “I...didn’t want contact.” He’d sent his cousin Cole away when he’d come to visit.
“And now?”
Jordan just shook his head, still focused on the tabletop. “I don’t know what I want other than some solitude. That’s why I came here.” He placed both palms on the table and looked up at the ceiling. Looked anywhere but at Emery, who he was afraid was going to suggest the obvious. “I hadn’t expected this.”
Emery then did exactly what Jordan had dreaded, yet expected
. “There are some resources here, you know. The VA—”
“No.”
“But—”
“No.” Jordan’s voice held an edge of steel that he hoped hid the anxiety he felt at the mention of help. He’d been helped the conventional way and it hadn’t taken. He wasn’t beyond trying again, just not yet. Not...yet.
Emery was staring at him now, his lips pressed tightly together beneath his white mustache as if he was trying very hard to keep from speaking.
“Sorry,” Jordan muttered.
“Nothing to be sorry for. I imagine you’ve been to hell and back.”
“A couple times.”
“Pain still bad?”
“Getting better.”
“What’re you going to do now?”
Jordan started putting his papers back in the metal box. “I guess I’m going to start moving onto my ranch.”
“I mean for a living. You were never good with free time.”
Jordan almost said that he’d changed, but after the VA discussion he decided against it, saying instead, “Maybe I’ll drive by Claiborne’s place and see if he has any rank colts.” Which was how Jordan had made spending money during high school and college—starting those ornery animals.
Emery gave a short laugh. “When doesn’t he have rank colts?” he asked, seeming relieved to have a safe subject to talk about after delving into matters that edged into personal territory. “I’ve never seen a guy with so many wild two-, three-and four-year-olds. And every year he produces more foals. The guy’s got more money than brains.”
“He promised he was going to stop breeding when I left.”
“He lied.” Emery got to his feet and, once Jordan had the box locked, walked with him to the car, stopping in his tracks when he saw Clyde’s nose pressed up against the driver’s-side window. “You’re a poodle man now?”
“Stray,” Jordan said. “He’s been good company—seen me through a few rough spots on the trip. Subaru broke down a couple times.”
“I’m not surprised,” Emery said, cocking a thick white eyebrow as he studied the rusty little car. Then he looked back up at Jordan. “Speaking of rough spots...if you should get into any kind of trouble and you don’t call me, I’ll kick your ass to Missoula and back.”
“How would I get into trouble?” Jordan asked, straight-faced.
“I’m serious.”
“I’m just going to take care of what’s mine.” He got in the car and Clyde instantly jumped onto his lap, balancing his front paws on the door while his hind feet dug into Jordan’s thighs. Jordan rolled down the window a few more inches. “I appreciate the help and I won’t get myself into trouble.”
Much. He hoped.
Emery dug in his pocket and pulled out his wallet. He removed a worn card and handed it to Jordan. “That’s my number. Call.”
Jordan took the card and put it in his own wallet, then Emery stepped back, looking, if anything, even more concerned than when Jordan had first stepped out of the car. Jordan wanted to tell him not to worry, but it wouldn’t have done a hell of a lot of good. So instead he nodded at the old man and put the car in reverse.
After driving a few miles, out of sight of the house, he pulled to the side of the gravel road and counted the bills left in his wallet. The Subaru repairs had made a deep dent and his disability check wouldn’t go into the bank for another seven days, but if he was careful and not too concerned about the quality of his purchases, he had enough to make do.
Pocketing his wallet, he smiled grimly at the poodle. “We have work to do.”
* * *
SHAE PULLED THE Audi to a stop behind the main guest-ranch house at Cedar Creek, pulling the keys out of the ignition and pocketing them. It was impossible to tell if Jordan had gotten there ahead of her, but all seemed quiet when she walked into the reception area, brushing off the powdered road dust that had filtered onto her jeans when she’d opened the car door. A young woman dressed in dark jeans and a crisp white Western shirt with a bolo tie at the neck came around the reception desk to meet her.
“Hi,” she said cheerfully. “Welcome to the Cedar Creek Ranch. I’m Ashley.”
“I’m Shae McArthur,” Shae replied, wondering whether she’d actually beaten Jordan to the ranch—and if so, how?—or if he was simply somewhere else, having it out with Miranda. “I’d like to see Miranda.”
Ashley’s instant change of expression was almost comical as she realized who was standing in front of her. “She’s not back yet, but the trail riders should be arriving any minute now.”
“Where?”
“The far barn.”
“Has anyone showed up looking for her?”
Something that looked very much like a smirk twisted Ashley’s lips. “No. No one at all.”
“Thank you.” Shae reversed course and headed for the far barn, relieved to see a group of people dismounting as she approached. Miranda was easy to spot in the small crowd, with her pale auburn hair and megawatt smile. The smile that faltered slightly when their eyes met. Miranda handed her reins off to the wrangler closest to her, murmuring something to him before heading to meet Shae.
“Shae. What are you doing here?” she said in the falsely bright tone she used in front of the guests.
“Jordan showed up at the High Camp today. He seems to think he owns the property.”
Miranda took hold of Shae’s upper arm, gripping tightly. “Jordan?” she asked. “Here?”
“He left and I thought he was coming to Cedar Creek. Apparently he hasn’t arrived yet.”
Miranda let go of Shae’s arm. “Well, this is a surprise,” she said sardonically, more to herself than Shae. A young couple dressed in obviously new Western clothing walked by and Miranda smiled at them. “Megan. John. I hope you enjoyed the ride.”
“Gorgeous,” the woman replied. “Absolutely gorgeous.”
“Can’t wait to wet my line tomorrow.” The man put a hand on his wife’s shoulder. “We’re having a great time.”
“Glad to hear it.” Miranda beamed at the couple, then turned back to Shae. “Let’s go to my office,” she said in an undertone, starting to walk without waiting for a reply. Shae fell into step, smiling and nodding at the guests Miranda greeted by name on her way to main house. The woman was so damned good at making people feel special, both guests and employees. Quite the chameleon at times.
“Good afternoon, Ashley,” Miranda said as she passed by the desk. “Any messages?”
“Only the one from Ms. McArthur,” the girl replied with a tight-lipped smile.
“Thank you.” Miranda led the way up the stairs across the room from the reception area, unlatching the small chain that barred access, and then relatching it after Shae had passed through. Shae hadn’t spent much time at the guest ranch, except for company picnics and the Christmas parties, but she knew that the second floor was the family’s—and now Miranda’s—private sanctuary.
The stairs led to a large, comfortable room with a fireplace and several sofas upholstered in Indian prints. A large fur rug covered the hardwood floor in front of the fire and original oils of cowboys and Native American scenes hung on the walls. Miranda walked through the room, down a short hall, and opened the frosted glass door leading to her office.
“Tell me exactly what happened,” Miranda said, taking a seat on the opposite side of the sleek oak desk, letting Shae know, even under these circumstances, exactly what their positions were—that of employer and temporary employee.
“I’d only been at the ranch for about half an hour. I had to walk in because there was a tree down across the road, so I was later getting there than planned. I was in the house and a man—Jordan—walked in. Scared the hell out of me.”
“No doubt. What does he look like?”
Shae gestured helplessly as s
he tried to come up with an adequate description—as if it mattered. “One side of his face is scarred and his left hand is...really damaged. Burned and missing some fingers.”
Miranda grimaced, but didn’t appear particularly sympathetic. “Was he agitated?”
“He thinks he owns the land. All of it.”
“I understand that,” she said coolly, making Shae wonder just who did own the land.
“Yes, he was agitated. And tired and edgy and he’d looked as if he’d been sleeping in his clothes.” And I’m worried as hell that he’s going to screw up this job for me.
Miranda tapped a short manicured nail on the desktop, her lips pressed together as she thought. “All right,” she finally said, meeting Shae’s eyes. “I appreciate you driving all the way over here to warn me.”
“Well, he did seem...agitated,” she said.
Miranda rose to her feet. “I’ll take care of matters,” she said reassuringly. “Would you mind giving me your cell number so I can get hold of you later?”
Shae’s stomach clenched. Was she going to get fired again? Twice in one month? “Sure,” she said, taking up a pen off the desk and writing her number on the small notepad in the gold holder.
“I’ll be in contact,” Miranda said. “Soon.” Shae forced a smile before she headed for the stairs. “Shae?”
Shae turned back.
“Don’t worry. Okay?”
“I won’t,” she lied, then disappeared down the stairs.
CHAPTER FOUR
JORDAN STOPPED AT a highway service station just before the ranch turnoff and quickly washed up and changed his clothes. There wasn’t much he could do about the dark circles under his eyes, but he would at least be semipresentable when he confronted Miranda.
And then what?
Miranda was probably banking on him losing his temper so that she could use the incident to her advantage. A restraining order, perhaps? Jordan wouldn’t be one bit surprised. She was so damned good at whatever role she chose to play and the brave victim was one of her favorites. How many times had she played it with his father and how many times had the old man fallen for it?
