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She studied his face, wondering if he were being sarcastic or not. Thunder Canyon was still, in many ways, a small community. And given her experience in the months she’d lived there, gossip was as much an avocation as skiing or hunting for gold. “My last two hands quit.”
A faint flicker in his eyes warned her that maybe he truly hadn’t known that fact. “Harlan and Danny?”
“Yes.”
His lips tightened. “When?”
“Five days ago.”
“And you’ve been staying on trying to manage everything on your own since then.”
“Yes.”
He made a noise under his breath that sounded like a rather creative oath. He gave her a square look that had her breath catching oddly in her throat. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
She was grateful for the purse in her lap. It gave her fingertips something to dig into. “There’s nothing for you to be sorry for,” she assured smoothly. “It’s not as if you were responsible it.” The brothers who’d been her last remaining hands had simply quit with no notice whatsoever. They’d collected their final pay and had moved out of the bunkhouse by the end of the day. Where they’d gone, she had no clue.
Nor much care. They’d barely been better than no help at all.
“No wonder you’re anxious for an answer,” Russ was saying. “Look, Miz McFarlane—”
“Melanie. You have a mouthful of nicknames for me. Surely you can manage that. Russ,” she added pointedly.
He ignored her. “I don’t know what kind of people you’re used to, ma’am, but around here, neighbors tend to watch out for neighbors.”
“Is that what you were doing three months ago when I moved onto the Hopping H and you assured me I was doomed to failure?”
“Pardon me for pointing out the obvious,” he countered, “but you’re sitting on land now with no hands on the payroll and judging by your offer to me—a desperate offer, I’ll bet—not much of an idea how to manage on your own without them. Is that how you folks define success?”
Success was what being a McFarlane was all about.
She dropped the lemon rind from her unfinished drink on the small square napkin beneath the glass and tossed back the rest of the cocktail. “I’m looking for replacements for Harlan and Danny,” she said. “But even when they are replaced—” the assurance was more bravado than anything since her efforts at hiring more hands had thus far been futile “—I want to know more about the ranch workings. I need to know.” She leaned toward him, lowering her voice. “The Hopping H is my future, Mr. Chilton. As a working guest ranch. I am not going to let it fail. Either you can help me in that endeavor, and benefit quite nicely in the process, I might add, or I’ll find someone else.” She didn’t know who, though. Hiring someone was out of the question, given the state of her finances. “Yes or no?”
“I get half an interest in the H.”
“Yes.” She’d thought about offering less, but desperate times called for desperate measures. And if—no, once—the guest ranch was on its feet and operating in the black, she’d be able to buy the man right back out again.
McFarlanes didn’t “do” partnerships any more than they ever asked for help.
“And all I have to do is teach you enough about running a ranch so that you can keep your place from sinking under.”
Her gaze darted around them. But nobody was paying them any heed, particularly since the lavish midnight buffet was being set out. “Yes. That, and—”
His brows drew together in a mighty frown. “And do it all while pretending to be your husband,” he finished.
Chapter Two
Russ watched the faint tide of red climb in Melanie McFarlane’s lily-white cheeks at his flat summation.
“Yes,” she replied in her slightly crisp voice. “That’s the deal.”
He picked up her empty martini glass and gave it an exaggerated sniff. “My old buddy Grant must be telling his barkeeps to pour heavy these days.”
“I am not inebriated,” she enunciated with the exaggeration of one who pretty much was. “Nor am I…off my bean, as you so eloquently phrased it.”
“Nobody ’round here will believe we’re hitched.”
“Why not?”
He very nearly laughed out loud at that. “People know me, for one thing.” And he’d made it more than plain that he had no intention of following the path to matrimony that every one of his buddies had been taking lately.
“Which means what? That you’re not interested in women?”
“Not redheaded women with Boston in their vowels, that’s for damn sure.” Been there. Done that. Nobody who knew him would believe he’d repeat the experience.
“I’ve never lived in Boston,” she assured snootily. “My family is from Philadelphia.”
The moneyed part of it, he added silently, where he knew the headquarters of her family’s hotel empire was located.
“And besides, the only people we need to convince of anything are my family,” she continued.
“Why?”
She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. The point is, seduction is key.”
“What’s the key?”
“Discretion,” she repeated so smoothly it left him wondering if he was the one who’d misheard, or she was the one who’d misspoke.
Either way, he damn sure needed to keep his mind off seduction where this woman was concerned. “What are you hoping to prove here, Melanie McFarlane?”
Her long lashes swept down, hiding her gaze. “I don’t know what you mean. This is a business venture. Of course, I expect to succeed at it.”
“Business ventures that involve you playacting as someone’s wife. What’s the deal? You’d rather have them think you’re married to someone like me, than let them think you couldn’t manage on your own?”
Her lashes flew up and he saw a tinge of guilt in her expression. Enough to wonder if he hadn’t hit on some truth. But all she did was turn up her nose a little in that way of hers. “I would be grateful if you could keep your voice down.”
He wasn’t exactly yelling. Hell. He didn’t want any of his friends overhearing their conversation, either. At the rate that weddings and engagements were occurring around Thunder Canyon, God only knew what sort of rumors might be set into motion. “And you figure six months is all it’ll take for you to learn the ins and outs of running the H.” It was laughable, really. Either she thought he had superhuman abilities—which he doubted, given the uppity looks she usually gave him—or she had no clue what a huge bite she was trying to swallow.
“I should certainly understand the basics by then. At least enough to know whether my ranch hands are doing their jobs or not.”
If Russ saw Harlan or Danny Quinn any time soon, he’d have a few words to say to the dolts. It wasn’t as if hands didn’t come and go. They did. But leaving a woman—no matter who she was—high and dry like they had was pretty damn low. “And if it’s not enough time?”
She didn’t look away. “Then naturally I would expect to renegotiate our agreement.”
“You’d give me more than fifty percent?”
Her lips curved, revealing the perfect, gleaming white edge of her teeth. “I’m a businesswoman, Russ. What do you think? Not in this lifetime. But there could be some additional financial remuneration.”
“You’d pay me cold hard cash to play your hus—”
She leaned forward, closing her hand over his forearm. “I believe we understand one another.”
He understood that those long, slender fingers of hers might as well have been branding irons given the effect they had on his flesh. “Then understand this.” He shifted and caught her hand in his as she went to draw away, and spotted the flicker in her deep brown eyes that she couldn’t quite hide. “I may be just a rancher, ma’am. But I know how to smell cow patties when I see ’em.”
She tugged at her hand and he loosened his grip enough for her to slowly work herself free. “You think this is some sort of game for me?”
“I don’t know what this is for you,” he admitted. “But there’s no way in hell that I’d agree to this nonsense on just a handshake.”
“I thought a man’s handshake was his bond. Particularly in this part of the country.”
“You’re not from this part of the country.”
She winced a little. “Are you suggesting that Easterners can’t be trusted to keep their word?”
“Not the Easterners I’ve ever known. You want my help, then we get hitched for real. No pretense.”
“But, but that’s preposterous!”
“Is it?”
She sat back in her seat, brushing her fingers through her deep-red, lustrous hair. It fell back, perfectly, in its sleek lines against the nape of her long, elegant neck.
Even disconcerted, she looked as if she’d stepped off the cover of a fashion magazine. Not the faddish magazines filled with outlandish looks, but the expensive publications that only people of her ilk bothered to peruse.
Nola’s kind of magazine.
“Don’t worry,” he added, brushing away thoughts of his ex-wife. “I’m not just trying to get into your pants.”
The red that had risen in her cheeks drained away, leaving her looking pale, but no less stunning. “How reassuring.” Her voice was thin.
Oh, yeah. He was the one who’d misheard.
She looked at him as if he were something to be scraped off the sole of her undoubtedly expensive holly-berry-red high heels.
“Unless that’s what you’re hoping for,” he goaded.
“No,” she assured hastily. “That is not on the table.”
He looked at the high-top beneath their empty drinks. “You sure now? This here table looks mighty sturdy—”
“Are you naturally odious or is that an acquired skill?”
He very nearly laughed. As far as he was concerned, Melanie McFarlane was the epitome of high maintenance. She looked expensive. She talked expensive. She smelled expensive.
But she did keep his mind moving.
And God help him, he’d always been taken in by leggy redheads. Not this time, though. The last time he’d lost more than he could bear.
“Maybe I’m a bit of both,” he allowed.
Her lips compressed.
The cocktail waitress appeared next to them, deposited a fresh round from her jam-packed tray and promised to return for the empties as soon as she could.
Melanie met his stare for an uncomfortable minute. Then she lifted her drink and gulped down half. She fiddled with her purse and drew out a slender gold pen, then pulled the fresh white napkin from beneath her drink. “I think your…idea…is overkill. Perhaps if we just put the terms in writing.” She began writing carefully, then lifted her pen, looking at him as she slid the napkin toward him. “Does that make you feel better?”
He looked down at the list as he took a pull on his beer and wished he’d ordered a whiskey, instead. But then again, they’d both already had plenty to drink.
They were still sitting together at the table, after all. That had to be the result of alcohol. There was no other logical explanation.
The first several items on the napkin were straightforward, considering the nature of the agreement. Act as her husband—for the benefit of her family—and teach her everything she needed to know without seeming to teach her.
“Better?” He let out a disbelieving snort. “This is pretty damn crazy.”
She didn’t reply. Just wrapped those long, cool fingers of hers around her glass and sipped. If he wasn’t mistaken, her hand wasn’t entirely steady.
Nerves? Alcohol?
He pinched the bridge of his nose and looked at the napkin. After six months of their make-believe marriage, she would sign over fifty percent of the property to him.
Free and clear.
He could finally expand the Flying J into the Hopping H’s prime territory. Not all of that territory, as he’d been planning to do for years, but half of it was nothing to sneeze at.
What was six months of his time, after all? He’d already put that, and more, into raising the funds to back his original offer on the H.
The offer that she’d trumped.
Now, he could have half the spread and plow his money back into it to boot.
From the corner of his vision, he watched her lift her drink again. Take a delicate sip. Set the glass carefully down.
She shifted slightly and the top of her red dress—a sort of wrapped thing that clung to her curves—gaped for a moment, giving him a fleeting glimpse of something pale and lacy against flesh that looked taut and full. It had to be his imagination that had him hearing the slide of her legs as she crossed one over the other. The bar was too damn noisy for him to have actually heard anything of the sort.
Imagination could be a pain in the ass.
He peered at her sloped handwriting, so cultured-looking and different than his own chicken scratching, as he reached the bottom of her stipulations.
“No hanky-panky,” he read aloud, glancing up at her.
She looked vaguely bored. But there was a thin line of white around her compressed lips that belied the demeanor. “It seemed prudent to add that point.”
He figured the humor winding around inside him would be sort of misplaced just then. “I think my grandmother used to use that term.” He leaned closer toward her, catching a whiff of her expensive scent. No imagination required there. Other than to wonder where she dotted that evocative perfume.
At the base of her neck? Her wrists? Between her breasts?
He stared into her eyes, making himself think of the Hopping H, and what he stood to gain. She’d said it herself.
