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“Shit.” He rubbed his injured hand over his face again and Shae couldn’t help staring at it, her insides clenching at the sight of the twisted, shiny skin. She hoped no signs of disgust crossed her face, but she couldn’t be certain. At the moment she was having a difficult time processing everything—the man, the injuries, the possible consequences to her employment contract.
“She’s at the ranch?” he asked abruptly.
Shae swallowed and met his eyes. Deep blue eyes, filled with cold, cold anger. “Miranda? I don’t know.”
He turned without another word and walked out the door, the curly white dog trotting daintily behind him. An odd picture, but Shae was in no mood to reflect on why a guy like Jordan Bryan would be here with a poodle. She stayed where she was, next to the map tubes she’d placed on the dusty oak table, watching through the open door until she saw Jordan disappear down the road.
Once she was certain he was gone, Shae stepped out onto the porch, squeezing her forehead with one hand to stave off the headache that was starting to build. The prodigal had returned at the most inopportune moment and it appeared that Miranda was in for one hell of a rude awakening.
She couldn’t let that happen. Not if she wanted to keep her job.
Shae went back into the house and picked up her backpack, leaving the map tubes where they lay. There was no way she’d be able to reach her car before Jordan reached his, but she could follow a few miles behind him to the highway and call Miranda once she got into cell-phone range. She needed to warn her boss that trouble was coming.
* * *
BLOOD POUNDED IN Jordan’s temples as he stalked down the rutted road, barely aware of Clyde struggling to keep up with his long strides. The Subaru keys were in his hand, held so tightly that he was pretty damned certain there’d be a permanent imprint in his palm, but he didn’t relax his grip.
Miranda Bryan had just officially screwed with his life once too often and she was going to be one sorry woman when he caught up with her. He swallowed drily as he rounded the last corner before the windfall. Just a few more minutes to the car, then forty-five minutes to the ranch. Once there he knew exactly what he was going to do. He was going to throttle her.
Oh, damn, yeah. He was going to put his hands around her neck and— Jordan exhaled sharply, feeling his short nails dig even deeper into his palm —go to jail for assault, no doubt, once her henchmen pulled him off her.
That would solve everything—for her.
Shit. What was he doing, heading off half-cocked like this, blinded by rage? More than that, what was he thinking? Throttling Miranda wasn’t the answer. Nor was having a shouting match with her at the ranch, where she could have him arrested for trespassing.
Jordan forced himself to stop in the middle of the narrow road and release the death grip on the keys. Slowly his cramped fingers obeyed. And then he drew in a long breath and exhaled again as his head bent forward and he pressed his injured hand against his forehead.
Think. Think hard. Don’t let her gain control.
The ranch was his. Miranda hadn’t inherited her husband’s share of the common tenancy Jordan had shared with his father and he had the papers to prove it. He’d been the sole heir of the High Camp. So what the hell? Something was very wrong here.
Was she actively working on his ranch because she was so certain he was never coming back?
Was she that ballsy?
A definite yes to the latter, as he knew from personal experience, but Miranda was also careful, which concerned him.
No, it chilled him. Miranda did not leave i’s undotted and t’s uncrossed. If she was working on the High Camp, she felt safe doing so, and Jordan needed to find out why. And he had to be careful as to how he did it.
He crouched down and stroked the dog’s curly head, the corners of his mouth lifting in spite of himself as the poodle laid his chin on Jordan’s knee and stared up at him, his expression clearly indicating that he didn’t know what was going on, but whatever it was, he had Jordan’s back.
Jordan scooped the dog up and stood, holding the sturdy little animal to his chest, feeling better knowing he was not alone. Miranda was not taking over his property as she’d taken over everything else Jordan held dear. But before he did anything, he needed to find out what in the hell was going on. He could think of only one person who could help him—if the guy was still alive.
* * *
“IS MIRANDA AT THE RANCH?” Shae demanded the second time the guest-ranch receptionist, who’d identified herself as Ashley, tried to put her off. “Because this is an emergency and I need to talk to her.”
“What kind of emergency?” Ashley asked in an ultraefficient tone that made Shae want to shake her.
“The kind where you’ll get fired if you don’t let Miranda know I’m on the phone. Now!”
“I don’t know where she is,” the girl snapped. She abruptly stopped, as if hearing the tone she’d been taking, and when she spoke again, she was once more the picture of überefficiency. Miranda, unfortunately, trained her help well. “Her car is here,” Ashley said, “but she’s not in the house. Sometimes she goes riding with the guests.”
“Call her cell.”
“The trails are no-cell zones,” the girl said primly.
“Is there a manager? Someone I can talk to?”
“The housekeeper. Everyone else is out working.”
Shae glanced at her watch. She’d be there in half an hour. She figured Jordan was at least fifteen minutes ahead of her.
“Look. There’s a guy who might show up. Her stepson. And he’s not in a good mood. If I were you, I’d tell him that Miranda isn’t there. You got that? Miranda isn’t there.”
“But if he’s her stepson—”
“They don’t get along,” Shae said from between gritted teeth. “If you see Miranda before I get there, have her call me. Shae. And you might tell the manager or any other burly guys hanging around that there could be trouble. Understand?”
“Y-yes.”
Finally she’d gotten through. “Thank you.” Shae punched the end button and dropped the phone onto the console, pressing down on the accelerator, hoping she’d done the right thing. If Jordan showed up and was the picture of politeness, she was going to look stupid, but somehow she didn’t see that happening. Not if he was in the same temper he’d been in when he’d abruptly left the ranch house.
So what was she going to do once she arrived at the ranch?
As if she had a clear idea. It wasn’t that she particularly liked Miranda, but she didn’t want to see her ambushed.
And you don’t want the chance to get back your job screwed up.
Yeah. That, too.
So whatever was going down, she wanted to do what she could to salvage the situation. She just hoped she somehow got there before Jordan and didn’t walk in on a battle royal.
* * *
THE WEATHERED SHINGLE identifying Emery Anderson as an attorney-at-law still hung beneath the beat-up mailbox on Pole Line Road, five miles from the Cedar Creek Ranch. Jordan parked next to a late-model pickup truck and cracked the windows open so that Clyde could get some air while he talked with his father’s lawyer and friend.
Or at least he’d been a friend until Miranda entered the scene.
Miranda hadn’t liked Hank to spend too much time with people other than herself. Jordan’s mouth thinned as he opened the rear door and pulled out the small lockbox. He slammed the door shut and was heading toward the walk when the door opened and an older man stepped out onto the porch. Emery wasn’t dead, but his deeply lined face indicated that he’d lived every one of his seventy-nine years. His hair had thinned to practically nothing and he’d lost at least fifteen pounds since the last time Jordan had seen him, but his white handlebar mustache was as gloriously full and carefully groomed as always.
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—”
