by Jeannie Watt
“Quiet. Why?”
“I’m sharing the High Camp with him.”
“No kidding.” The phone cut out briefly, then Brant said, “He’s back? How’s he doing?”
“He has some nasty injuries.” Shae went back outside to unlock her mailbox and pull out a handful of envelopes and catalogs. “I think he’s still suffering from the aftermath.”
“And you two are working together now.”
“It’s a long story,” Shae said as the phone sputtered again. “I’m losing the connection. I’ll tell you when you get here.”
“See you in an hour or so.”
Shae dumped the mail on the table after ending the call and shuffled through it. Bills. Lots of them. Beyond the deposits she’d lost, she was paying for a lot of extras she’d thought she’d need for the wedding. Orders that couldn’t be canceled. Invitations. Matchbooks. Clothing for her honeymoon. Clothing she didn’t think she’d be able to wear.
She opened the fridge and pulled out the wine as the phone rang again. Miranda.
“Hello,” she said in her professional voice.
“Shae. Miranda. How’d it go today?”
“No problems,” Shae said. “I got a good start evaluating the existing infrastructure.”
“And my stepson?”
“Not a problem.” Not one she was going to talk about, anyway. She sensed that the more capable she was dealing with Jordan, the more satisfied Miranda would be with her job performance and the closer she would be to a contract.
“Good to hear. Hope you have the same experience tomorrow, but if not, let me know and I’ll handle things on my end.”
“I think it’ll be fine,” Shae said. She hoped it would be. Shae poured her wine as she filled in Miranda on her plan of action for the next several days. Miranda appeared cautiously satisfied, again admonished Shae to let her know the instant her stepson ceased to cooperate and hung up. It sounded as if Miranda wanted him to interfere. Jordan was probably going to get his ass sued before this was all said and done.
Shae sat back on the sofa and picked up her wineglass from the end table. Tomorrow was going to be a long day if the guy insisted on shadowing her as she worked, making it damned difficult to concentrate—which was obviously why he was hanging around so persistently. He realized the effect he had on her...and Shae had a feeling that he thought it was his injuries alone that were getting to her. No. It was him. The whole package. Something about those eyes, cold one minute, haunted and vulnerable the next. What had he been through and why had he come back? And why wouldn’t he simply take Miranda’s offer if he hated her so much?
He wanted payback, just as Miranda had said. Revenge for taking his father away from him. And she was smack in the middle.
Shae took a sip and closed her eyes as she swallowed. Tomorrow was going to be different. Tomorrow she was going to take control. She was not going to lose it again, not going to tell him to go to hell.
Because apparently he’d already been there...and the expression on his face when he’d said that troubled her.
* * *
WHAT WAS HE going to do while he lived on the ranch?
Good question. One that had nagged at him during the drive cross-country, but when no easy answer had popped into his head, he’d ignored it. All he’d wanted to do was get back to a place where he felt at peace and build a plan once he got there.
Well, that was out the window, thanks to Miranda. And to his father.
Had his dad knowingly bequeathed the lease to Miranda? If so, had she couched things in such a way that it’d seemed reasonable to leave his rights to her? Or had her lawyer slipped the clause in, as Emery had speculated? Perhaps his dad simply hadn’t cared.
Jordan pressed the cold can of iced tea, fresh from the creek, which served as his impromptu fridge, against his forehead. Was that possible? His father had been so enamored of Miranda, so thrilled that such a woman would marry him. Things had changed between him and his father once she’d come into their lives and, despite Jordan’s best efforts, had stayed changed. His father had become...less available. Mentally. Emotionally. It had killed Jordan at the time.
Still killed him a little.
And then there was the stunt Miranda had tried to pull with him. That hadn’t helped matters one bit.
He shoved the thought aside, refusing to go there again. He unzipped the tent flap and Clyde sailed inside, curling up on the sleeping bag as if claiming the good spot. Jordan pried off his boots and set them neatly in the corner of the tent, gently pulled off his T-shirt and reached for the cream that he rubbed into his damaged skin. Idly he started to rub, the movements now second nature and soothing, as he tried to focus on positives.
He had his life. It was shit at the moment, but he could work on that—even though he was sorely tempted to crawl off into a corner somewhere. His movements slowed for a moment as it struck him that coming to Montana to hole up on his ranch had been akin to crawling off into a corner. That option was out now. There would be no quiet corners, just a fight for what was his.
He slipped on a long-sleeved T-shirt to keep the cream from staining his sleeping bag and then lay down next to Clyde. Too hot to get inside yet. So what the hell was he going to do? Continue to follow Shae McArthur around just to annoy her?
Yes. For the time being. At best it was a lame tactic, but he saw no reason why she should be comfortable as she made plans to make his life uncomfortable.
He gave a soft snort. Good for the short term. What about the long term?
He didn’t seem to be able to think past the next few days. He reached for the pills he kept in the plastic box that held his toiletries, shook one out of the bottle and held it in his palm.
He’d slept okay without it last night, despite the Miranda-induced trauma. What did he have to lose by trying again? It wasn’t as if he was going to disturb the neighbors. He’d only disturb himself...
He wanted to be fresh tomorrow when he took care of that felled tree in the road and fought the next round with Shae. The nightmares left him ruined.
He popped the pill into his mouth and washed it down with the last swallow of tea.
* * *
THE LOG WAS GONE—sawed into rounds that had been pushed to the side of the road. Had it been removed by Miranda’s man or Jordan? Could Jordan handle a chain saw with his damaged hand? It was ugly, the kind of ugly that made her fight not to look away, but was it at all functional?
When the house came into view, Shae slowed, surveying the scene before her. It looked the same as when she’d arrived that first day: deserted. No man. No dog. She parked Killer next to the Subaru and got out of the truck, closing the door quietly. The place was still, but she wasn’t alone. No—she wasn’t that lucky. Not lately, anyway.
He was probably in the house. A chain saw sat on the porch step, answering her question as to who had sawed the log. Shae started walking toward the building and as she got closer, she could see the edge of something blue behind a thick hedge of lilac bushes in the backyard. A tent. The guy had bivouacked. She’d been wondering how he was dealing with the mountains of dust and debris in the house. Now she knew. He wasn’t. Yet.
A wildly yapping ball of dirty white curls suddenly charged around the house and barreled toward her. Shae stopped dead in her tracks. The poodle slid to a stop in front of her and snarled.
“Hi...little dog,” Shae said soothingly, taking a slow step forward. The poodle did an aggressive jump toward her with his lips curled to show his teeth and then sprang back again. Shae stopped, having no desire to end up with a dog attached firmly to her ankle.
Jordan came out from behind the house, attracted, no doubt, by the sound of his lethal poodle. He stopped when he saw her, their gazes connecting over the guard dog, and the reality of his scars hit her hard. Again. Damaged, damage
d man. Finally Shae drew in a long breath.
“Would you mind calling off your animal?” she asked.
“Clyde.”
The dog stopped yapping at the sound of Jordan’s voice, but stayed where he was, keeping Shae at bay, small teeth still bared. Shae tossed Jordan a look. She didn’t have time for this.
“Clyde,” he repeated softly. The dog glanced over his shoulder as if ascertaining that Jordan truly wanted him to back down from the threat that was Shae, then slowly turned and went to sit protectively on his owner’s boot.
If anything, Jordan looked worse than yesterday. The dark stubble that had covered the unscarred parts of his face yesterday was developing into a rough beard. His shirt hung on him, as if he’d lost weight since buying it—which he probably had during his recovery—but as before, it was his eyes that caught and held her attention. Today there was no sign of vulnerability. His gaze was cold, impersonal, determined.
Determined to do what? Make trouble for Miranda, thereby making trouble for her?
Wasn’t going to happen.
“I’m working in the bunkhouse today,” she said, having decided on the drive that she’d do the job in a professional manner, which meant doing him the courtesy of letting him know where she would be while on his property. If he wanted to take the low road, follow her around, insult her, fine. She’d spent a lifetime with people sniping behind her back because of the perception that she was spoiled. Jordan had done one better and sniped to her face, but she could take it. “You’re free to join me,” she said. “If you have nothing better to do.”
Jordan’s eyes narrowed slightly. “This is my ranch, my property, regardless of who holds the lease. I want to know what’s going on.”
“I’ll keep you informed,” she said.
“I bet.”
“Look,” she said. “You’re the one that signed the lease. Not me.”
“I signed with my father,” he said in a gritty voice.
“Who left it to Miranda. Again, not me. I’m just doing the job I was hired to do.”
“The job you initiated.”
She put her hands on her hips. “All I knew when I made that proposal was that Miranda controlled the property and couldn’t sell it. I figured you co-owned it. No one knew the particulars.”
“Doesn’t that tell you something?”
“Miranda’s a brilliant businesswoman—”
“And you admire her,” he finished mockingly.
“I can think of worse role models,” Shae said. “She’s very good at what she does. Dedicated to excellence.” And demanded the same of others, as Shae had found out. No slacking allowed on Miranda’s turf. “When I made the proposal, I had no idea that you’d show up again. No one did.”
“Because the only person who cared about where I was is dead.”
“I hear your cousin Cole cared.”
“Point taken,” he said coldly. “And after you spend months in and out of the hospital while dealing with the death of your father, you’ll be qualified to judge me on that count.”
Shae stilled, staring him down as she told herself to shut her mouth and walk away. This wasn’t a battle she was going to win.
She couldn’t do it.
She wanted to establish a middle ground so she wouldn’t have to go through this on a daily basis. “What is it you want, Jordan? How do you want to handle this?”
“I want you gone.”
“That isn’t going to happen.” She sauntered a step closer as she spoke, realizing that despite his scruffy appearance, he smelled like soap. Soap and man. She was pretty certain the electricity and water had yet to be turned back on, but he’d bathed somewhere. The water trough? The ponds?
“What is going to happen, Shae?” he asked in a low voice, his gaze intense, laserlike, as he waited for her to reply.
“What’s going to happen is that I’m going to be here,” she said, pointing a finger at the ground, “every day for at least eight weeks. I’m going to put together a proposal package. I’m going to sell Miranda on my ideas and I’m going to have this place up and running by hunting season.” Which was an exaggeration, since she wouldn’t be able to get the permits that quickly, but she wanted him to know just how serious she was. “And we can work together or you can shadow me and try to unnerve me.” Her eyes cut to his arm and back to his face. “Your choice. If you want to continue harassing me, I’ll be in the bunkhouse.”
Shae stalked away. She had no idea if he was watching her leave, but she felt as if his gaze was burning a hole in her back. Tough. He was going to have to accept reality or leave. Could she change things? No. Miranda was going to build a guest ranch here come hell or high water now that Jordan was back. That had become more than apparent during their last discussion. The entire flavor of the project had changed, which was good for Shae in that she would have the project development on her résumé. Not so good for Jordan and whatever game it was he was playing.
* * *
JORDAN CONSIDERED HIS options as he watched Shae march to the bunkhouse, her backpack bumping on her ass. Yesterday had exhausted him. The last thing he’d wanted to do was to dog Shae again, but he needed to make the point that he wasn’t going to stand back while she and Miranda ran roughshod over his ranch.
He ran a hand over the back of his scarred-up neck and glanced down at Clyde, who was also focused on Shae, his bright eyes intent. As Jordan saw it, he only had a handful of choices—hang around and make his presence felt, visit Emery and see what he could do legally, or take himself off somewhere and accept the inevitable. Miranda was going to transform his ranch into a dude ranch. Had he ever once known Miranda to fail at something she put her mind to?
Him. But other than that...
There was always a first time. He just needed a break.
He busied himself cleaning and oiling the chain saw again even though it didn’t need it. He’d woken up at a ridiculously early hour despite the pills and decided he might as well tackle the road. It hadn’t taken long to saw the log, and even though moving the rounds had been awkward, he’d gotten the job done. Now he could bring in supplies more easily.
And so could Shae.
Shae, who’d been in the bunkhouse the entire time he’d serviced the chain saw. What in the hell was she up to? What plans did she have for a building that up until now had held nothing but good memories for him? As kids, he and Cole had spent hours playing there while his dad had mowed and baled the meadow hay, playing hide-and-seek, building forts out of the odds and ends of lumber stored there, talking about the ranches they would own one day. Well, he owned a ranch now and couldn’t do one damned thing with it.
He walked up the weed-choked path leading to the front entrance of the building and stopped in the doorway. Shae glanced up as his shadow fell across her, then laid out a metal measuring tape along the wall next to him as if he wasn’t there, hooking the end on a crack in the corner molding. She got halfway across the room when the tape slipped free and bounced sideways, ruining her measurement. He saw the muscles of her jaw tighten before she locked the tape, strode back to the corner and once again wedged the end of the tape in the crack. As she returned to where the spool lay, Jordan put his thumb on the metal end, holding it in place. The disconcerted look on Shae’s face when she realized what he was doing almost made cooperating with the enemy worthwhile.
“Thanks,” she muttered. She jotted down the measurement and then retracted the tape. She measured the adjacent wall without mishap, then measured the distance to the window and up to the sill.
“What plans do you have for this building?” he asked.
“Nothing definite,” she said. Her eyes didn’t quite meet his, telling him that she did have a plan, though. He liked this old building as it was. Miners had lived there a century ago while working their nearby claims, cow
boys had bunked there during roundups, generations of kids had played there, dreaming big dreams, and none of them had involved a dude ranch.
He took a slow step forward, the floor creaking under his weight. She stiffened as he approached.
“This is wrong, Shae.” He spoke sincerely, rubbing the underside of his jaw with his ruined left hand. Shae’s eyes cut to it, then back up to his.
“Are you going to play the sympathy card now?” she asked.
Jordan felt as if she’d taken a swing at him. The last thing he ever played was the sympathy card. “I was hoping to appeal to your humanity. Guess that’s a lost cause.”
“Yet you sound surprised,” she said coldly, “after making it clear last night that you didn’t think I was particularly empathetic.”
“With cause,” he added.
“You know nothing about me.”
“I know what I saw when we rodeoed. The way you treated people. And Shae? It wasn’t pretty.”
“It was also a decade ago.”
“You’ve changed,” he said flatly, disbelievingly.
“Haven’t we all?” she asked in a cool voice.
He didn’t know if she was talking scars or temperament or what, but Jordan had had enough. He turned and strode out of the building without another word. It was time for him to do something. Take action. Stake a claim to his property. For that he needed a plan, and some money wouldn’t hurt, because he was probably going to be paying Emery a boatload of the stuff.
* * *
SHAE CROUCHED TO take another measurement, then set down the tape and sat on the dusty floor instead. She was ashamed of herself for her last comments, but how was she supposed to do battle with this guy? Was she supposed to acknowledge his scars? Ignore them?
They were there. They made her distinctly uncomfortable, but as she ran her fingers over her forehead in an attempt to calm herself down, she realized that it wasn’t entirely because of how they’d so radically changed his appearance. It was also because she couldn’t stop wondering about what he’d gone through. How horrible it must have been to realize his fingers were gone, his face and other parts of his body forever damaged. Shae’s lips curled slightly.
