Читать книгу The Man Who Had Everything - Christine Rimmer - Страница 12

Chapter Five

Grant stared down into her flushed, bewildered face. Right then, there were no words to describe how thoroughly he despised himself. As he watched, the hectic color drained from her cheeks and her mouth formed a round, shocked O.

On a husk of breath, she pleaded, “No…”

He forced a nod. “Yeah. It’s true. I’m selling the ranch.”

She gaped some more, then whispered, “When?”

“I’m signing the contract today, at four-thirty.”

She swallowed, caught her upper lip between her teeth, worried it, let it go. “Today.”

“That’s right.”

“When…do we have to be out?”

“By the end of August. The new owner wants to take possession September first.”

She seemed to consider that for a moment. “Not quite two months, then… Who?”

“What?”

“Who will be the new owner?”

“Her name’s Melanie McFarlane. From out of town. She wants to make it a guest ranch.”

“A guest ranch,” she repeated as if the very words made her sick.

Grant felt like something squirming and loathsome, something you’d find buried in sour soil under a giant rock. He made himself confess the rest. “I meant to tell you Sunday,” he said, as if that mattered. As if that made any difference at all.

“Oh,” she said. “You meant to tell us. But you… forgot?”

“I was…distracted.”

Color stained her cheeks again and he knew that she knew why he hadn’t. Because he’d seen her down by the creek, seen her as a woman for the first time. Because his senses, his mind, all of him, had been filled with her. No room left to remember what he should have done.

She hitched in a hard breath. “Distracted. By me?”

“Yeah.”

“And again, today, right? It’s all my fault…”

“I didn’t say that. Of course, it’s not your fault.”

“You met me here to tell me you were selling the ranch. And I distracted you again.”

“No. Wait. You’re getting it all wrong. There’s no excuse for my not telling you. I know there’s not. I’m not blaming you.”

She only stared at him. And he saw it all, his own complete culpability, right there in her upturned face, in those amazing leaf-green eyes of hers: the kiss on Sunday. And worse than that, what he’d almost done just now, out in the open beneath birches, where anyone might ride by and see them. He’d been too busy kissing her to tell her the thing she most needed to know, too absorbed in the feel and the taste of her, too stupefied by his own lust for her, to be straight with her.

His throat felt like two angry hands were squeezing it. Still, roughly, he made himself say the things he’d planned to say before he made such a complete mockery of her innocent trust in him. “It’s time to move on. To let go of the past. The world is changing, Steph. The day of the small, family ranch is over. Thunder Canyon isn’t the sleepy mountain town it once was. Growth and change are inevitable and we all need to get with the program, we need to—”

She put up a hand. “Wait.”

“Uh. What?”

“Don’t give me a load of that progress crap, please. The last couple of years, it’s about all I’ve heard. I don’t need to hear anymore. Bottom line is you’re selling Clifton’s Pride. I get it. It’s your ranch, after all, and your choice to make. You can let that buyer of yours turn a fine working ranch into some silly showplace where city people can play at being cowboys if you want to.”

He winced. “Look. What matters is, you’re going to be okay. I’ll see to it, I swear to you, we’ll get you a good job. Your mom, too…and I meant what I said about college. If you think you might change your mind, now you’ll be leaving the ranch, I’ll be glad to foot the bill…”

She just sat there, staring up at him. It was damned unnerving. He couldn’t tell what she might be thinking—he only knew it wasn’t good.

After the silence stretched out for way too long, she finally asked, “Well. Are you done?”

“I…” Hell. What more was there to say? “Yeah. I’m done.”

“Great.” She grabbed her boots from the edge of the blanket and yanked them on. Then she settled her hat on her head, gathered her legs under her and stood.

“Put your boots on,” she said in a voice so controlled it made him want to grab her and shake her and beg her to yell at him, to go ahead and get it out, tell him exactly what she thought of him. After all, it couldn’t be worse than what he thought of himself.

But he didn’t grab her. He knew if he did, he’d only try to kiss her again.

God. He was low. Lower than low.

He sat, put his hat on and then his boots.

She asked in a tone that was heartbreakingly civil, “Now, would you please get off the blanket so I can roll it up?”

He glanced at his Rolex. There was time—to ride to the ranch, say what needed saying—and get back to his office by four-thirty to meet Eva. He grabbed his beer and gulped the rest of it down, then shook out the can and crushed it.

She took it from him and put it in her saddlebags. He rolled the blanket. She took that from him, too, and tied it behind her saddle.

They mounted up.

“See you tomorrow,” she said, her clean-scrubbed, beautiful face absolutely expressionless.

“Uh. Tomorrow?”

She looked at him as if she wondered where he’d put his brains. “It’s the Fourth, remember? The parade?”

That’s right. Every year, the town put on an Independence Day parade. They’d both agreed to ride the resort’s float. Terrific. Another opportunity for her to treat him like the pond scum he was. “Of course, I remember.”

Something flashed in her eyes. He couldn’t read the emotion. Anger? Hurt? Some bleak combination of both? He didn’t know.

He felt like a stranger, an interloper, someone evil and cruel. And still, even now, when she looked at him as if she didn’t know him, didn’t want to know him, he only wanted to drag her right off that mare of hers and into his hungry arms. He wanted to touch her all over, to take off her shirt and her jeans and her boots, to strip her naked and finish what they’d started a little while ago.

She tightened her knees on Trixiebelle and off she went. Grant shook himself and urged Titan to follow.

Steph reined in and leveled a far too patient look at him. “In case you’ve forgotten, the resort’s that way.”

“I’m going with you.”

She blew out a hard breath. “Haven’t you done enough?”

“I have to tell them.”

“No, you don’t. I’ll do it.”

“No. That wouldn’t be right.”

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.”