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Her glance slid away. He knew what she was thinking—after the way he’d behaved, he had no place talking about what was right. But in the end, she only said, “Suit yourself,” and clicked her tongue for Trixiebelle to get moving again.
At the ranch, she went on in the barn to unsaddle the mare. Grant watched her go. She hadn’t said a word to him the whole ride.
He hitched Titan to the rail by the front porch and mounted the steps.
Inside, he followed his nose to the kitchen where something wonderful was in the oven and Marie stood at the peninsula of counter between the kitchen and the breakfast area, rolling out dough for pies. Sliced apples, dusted in sugar and cinnamon, waited in a bowl nearby.
He forced a hearty tone. “How come it always smells so good in here?”
She stopped rolling and grinned at him. She had flour on her nose. “Stick around awhile and you just might get yourself a warm piece of pie.”
He hadn’t bothered hanging his hat by the door. Instead he held it in his hands. Which seemed sadly fitting. He fiddled with the tattered brim. “Believe me, I’m tempted. But I’ve got to get back…”
Marie tipped her head to the side and frowned. “Okay. What’s the matter? You got a look like someone just shot your best mule.”
He swore.
She plunked the rolling pin down and wiped her hands on the apron she’d tied over her jeans. “I’ll get you a beer…”
“No, thanks. Marie, I’ve got something I have to say.”
She made a small sound of mingled distress and expectation.
And he went ahead and told her, flat out. “I’m selling the ranch. You’ll all have to be out by the thirty-first of August.”
What had he imagined? That she’d go all to pieces? Not Marie Julen. Like her daughter, she was stronger and tougher than that.
“Well,” she said evenly, after a moment. “All right.” And she picked up the rolling pin again and got back to work rolling out that pie dough.
He stood there in the doorway from the central hall and wondered what to do next.
Marie glanced his way again. “Grant. It’s okay. It’s not the end of the world. Things change. Life goes on.”
He almost laughed. “That’s what I was going to say to you.”
She pointed her rolling pin at the table. “Will you sit down, please? You’re making me nervous, looming there in the doorway like that.”
“No, I really have to get back.”
“Good enough, then.”
But he just stood there and watched her plump, clever hands as she carefully folded the circle of flattened pie dough into quarters, lifted it off the floured board and gently set it in the waiting pie pan.
He remembered that he’d offered her no reassurances. “Marie, I promise you. I’ll see you’re taken care of.”
“Well, of course you will.” She opened the folded crust, shaped it to fit the sides of the pan and took up a rolling cutter.
He watched her expertly trim the excess crust from the edge, turning the pan in a circle as she worked. “There’ll be another job, a good job,” he vowed. “I was thinking you might want to be cooking, maybe something in town, at a coffee shop, something like that…”
She had a second crust ready and took the cutter to it, sectioning it into strips to make one of those fancy lattice-type top crusts that always made her pies stand out for looks, as well as flavor. “Grant.” She spoke chidingly, her skilled, swift hands continuing their work. “Stop beating yourself up. We’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”
“I told Steph.”
Those busy hands hesitated—but only for a second. “Ah.”
“I don’t think she’s ever going to forgive me.”
“You give her time, she’ll be okay.”
“Damn it, Marie. I don’t know about that.”
Behind him, down at the other end of the central hall, he heard the front door open. Steph. Her footsteps approached.
He made himself turn to face her, found her mouth set in a stern line and her eyes flat, giving him nothing.
“Did you tell her?” she asked.
Marie said sweetly, “Yes, he did.” A glance back over his shoulder showed him she hadn’t even looked up from laying the strips of dough in a crosswise pattern onto a floured sheet of aluminum foil.
“You leaving, then?” Steph said. It wasn’t really a question.
The thing was, even while she was looking at him with those dead eyes, he still wanted to reach for her, haul her up close, breathe in the warm, sweet scent of her hair, feel her body snug and soft all along the length of his. He wanted to lower his head and crush his mouth to those unwilling lips—until she sighed and opened for him.
But of course, he did no such thing. He said, “I have to talk to Rufus and Jim.”
“Don’t worry. I already told them.”
“Great,” he said, guiltily tamping down a flare of resentment at her for taking a job that should have been his. “Still, I want to have a few words with them.”
“They’re in the barn.”
“Well. All right, then.” He hit his hat on his thigh. “See you later, Marie.”
Marie sent him a smile as loving and warm as any she’d ever bestowed on him. “Ride safe, now.”
“I will. He nodded at the cold-eyed woman standing beside him. “Steph.”
“Grant.” She said his name as if it made a bad taste in her mouth.
In the barn, he reassured Rufus and Jim that he’d find other jobs for them. Jim nodded and thanked him.
Rufus said, “Hell, boy. I know you’ll take care of us. Haven’t you always?” He didn’t say anything about how John Clifton was probably rolling over in his grave at the thought that his own son planned to sell the ranch he’d sweated blood over, the ranch that had been in the Clifton family for five generations.
Grant was damn grateful for Rufus’s silence on that subject.
He tipped his hat at the cowboys and left the barn. Out in the sun, Titan was waiting, hitched where he’d left him. He mounted up and got the hell out of there.
* * *
Grant rode Titan harder than he should have. He reached the resort in forty minutes. He turned the lathered horse over to the head groom and went up to the lodge. In his suite, he showered and changed into business clothes and went down the hill to the office complex.
Once he’d settled behind his desk, he called his assistant in. She gave him his messages, reminding him that he had an important dinner that night with two of the resort’s main backers.
He hadn’t forgotten. “Drinks in the Lounge at seven-thirty. Dinner at eight in the Gallatin Room. Right?”
She smiled and nodded. “You have some voice mail, too.”
“I’ll check it now.”
She left him. He played through his voice mail. Nothing urgent. He checked e-mail—or at least, he brought up his e-mail program and stared at the screen.
Really, though, all he saw was Steph. Her sweet, open face, smiling up at him, eyes shining with admiration and trust. And the way she’d looked Sunday, right after he kissed her, soft mouth red and swollen, eyes full of dreams…
Did she hate him now? Was she ever going to forgive him for the way he’d behaved, for selling off Clifton’s Pride when she was so happy there?
He tried to tell himself that maybe, if she hated him, that would be for the best. If she hated him, she’d stay clear of him. It would be a hell of a lot easier to keep his hands off her if she refused to come near him. She’d be safe from him.
He wanted that. He did. He wanted to…protect her from himself—and any other guys like him. From guys who didn’t want to get serious. Guys who would steal her tender innocence and then, in the end, walk away and leave her hurting.
The phone rang. He let his assistant answer, but took it when she buzzed him to tell him it was Caleb Douglas.
Since failing health had pretty much forced him to retire, Caleb was at loose ends a lot of the time. Grant listened to the old guy ramble on for a while before finally cutting the monologue short, saying he had a meeting he had to get to.
After the call from Caleb, he took calls from a tour packager and from Arletta Hall. In her fifties, Arletta owned a gift shop in town. She reminded him that he was expected to be at the big parking lot on the corner of North Main and Cedar Street the next day at 11:00 a.m. sharp.
He promised he’d be there, rigged out in the costume she’d dropped off at the concierge for him last Friday, ready to climb on the float and smile and wave his way down Main Street.
“Does it fit all right?” Arletta fussed. “It’s fine,” he replied automatically, though he’d yet to take it out of the box she’d delivered it in.
Arletta wanted him to know how pleased she was that he’d allowed her to take charge of the resort’s float. “Honored,” she declared. “I am honored. And those young people you sent to help me have done an excellent job. I think you’ll be pleased with the results.”
He thanked her for everything, but she kept on talking. About how well the float had turned out and how excited she was for him to see it, what a big day tomorrow was going to be, what with so many events planned.
“Truly, Grant, I believe this will be the most exciting Fourth of July our town has ever seen. Every hotel and motel is full, and the merchants are doing a record business—including Yours Truly, and I’m just pleased as punch about that, I don’t mind telling you. Why, we’re a boomtown all over again, aren’t we? And so much of it is due to you and the Douglases. That resort of yours has been a real shot in the arm to our economy. We get tourists year-round now…” She yammered on.
When she finally had to stop for a breath, he thanked her for her kind words and gently reminded her that it wasn’t his resort—and he really did have to go.
“Oh, well. I know, don’t I, how busy you are? I understand. No problem. No problem at all.”
“See you tomorrow, Arletta.”
“Don’t forget now. Eleven sharp.”
“I’ll be there.”
“In costume.”
“Yes. In costume.”
She finally said goodbye, just as his assistant buzzed to tell him that Eva Post had arrived.
“Send her in.”
“Grant. Hello.” A handsome woman of forty or so, Eva wore a trim gray pantsuit and bloodred lipstick. She carried one of those soft, oversize briefcases. Grant rose to greet her. They shook hands and he indicated one of the leather armchairs opposite his desk.
Eva sat and unzipped her briefcase. She pulled out a folder.
Grant saw that folder clutched in her slim hand with its long, red fingernails and something inside him rebelled.
Sternly he reminded himself of all the reasons he was selling. It made absolutely no sense for him to hold on to a ranch he didn’t need, a ranch that never more than broke even, a ranch that stood for the past when Grant was the kind of man who looked toward the future.
But those reasons? They didn’t mean squat.
It was no good. He couldn’t do it.
“Hold on,” he said.
She paused, the folder still in her hand, and sent him a baffled look. “Excuse me?”
“I’m sorry. I’ve changed my mind. I won’t be selling Clifton’s Pride, after all.”
Chapter Six
Eva Post stared at him as if he’d gone stark-raving out of his mind.
And damn it. Maybe he had.
She tried a laugh. “You’re joking.”
“No. I’m not.” What the hell? He couldn’t quite believe it himself. But still, it was true.
He couldn’t sell Clifton’s Pride. He just…couldn’t do it. Period. End of story.
Eva took a moment to collect herself. She set the folder on the edge of his desk and bent to prop her briefcase against her chair. Then she sat up straight again and folded her hands in her lap.
Cautiously she inquired, “Is there…something about this deal you’re not satisfied with? I assure you, Grant, the terms are exactly as we discussed.”
“It’s not the terms. The terms are fine. More than fair.”
“Well, then, what’s holding you back?”
He remembered the expression on Steph’s face just before he left her that day. She’d looked at him as if she didn’t know him at all—as if she didn’t care to know him.
That hurt. That really got to him. Steph’s respect meant a lot to him. It cut him to the core to think he’d lost it.
But losing Steph’s high regard wasn’t all of it.
He told Eva, “The offer was too good, really.”
