Читать книгу All for a Cowboy - Jeannie Watt - Страница 12

CHAPTER FOUR

JORDAN STOPPED AT a highway service station just before the ranch turnoff and quickly washed up and changed his clothes. There wasn’t much he could do about the dark circles under his eyes, but he would at least be semipresentable when he confronted Miranda.

And then what?

Miranda was probably banking on him losing his temper so that she could use the incident to her advantage. A restraining order, perhaps? Jordan wouldn’t be one bit surprised. She was so damned good at whatever role she chose to play and the brave victim was one of her favorites. How many times had she played it with his father and how many times had the old man fallen for it?

Jordan’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel. Hank had fallen for just about everything about his young wife. She was attractive, intelligent and devoted to him, but there was something about her that had kept Jordan from warming up to her. In the beginning he’d been candid about his feelings with his father, until he saw just how much the woman meant to Hank. After that he’d kept his opinions to himself. If Miranda made Hank happy, then he had nothing more to say...until his stepmother had slipped into his bed late one night half a year after the wedding.

Being turned down by a shocked eighteen-year-old had been an unpleasant surprise to Miranda and before she’d left his room, she’d made it very clear that Jordan had two choices—he could destroy his father’s happiness or he could keep his mouth shut. And regardless of what he said, she would deny it to the death.

In the end, Jordan had decided to keep his mouth shut and leave the ranch. He couldn’t stay and watch the woman manipulate his father, especially when Miranda was so damned good at subtly twisting things so that it appeared as if Jordan harbored an unfounded dislike of her. Even when he and Hank were alone, it was as if she were there, coloring their conversations and interactions. So much had gone unsaid between Jordan and his father during the Miranda years.

So much that would now never be said.

Given the circumstances, was it possible for him to go face-to-face with Miranda without losing it? He’d changed since the accident; his patience level didn’t rise far above the zero mark a lot of the time and his former stepmother knew exactly which buttons to punch.

He had to hold on to his anger. She wouldn’t lose control, so neither would he.

An hour after driving away from the truck plaza, he pulled into what used to be his home and parked next to the house. Then, for a moment, he sat, staring straight ahead. He could do this. If he started to lose it, he’d just leave, as he’d left the rodeo queen at the High Camp. No harm, no foul.

Clyde put a paw on Jordan’s thigh and he absently patted the dog’s head before he pushed open the door and headed for the front of the house, even though he’d always gone in through the back before. No longer his place. He rounded the corner to the front walk, then abruptly stopped as Shae McArthur came barreling around the same corner. They stopped just short of one another, Shae’s head jerking up as she met his eyes and he was struck by how guilty she looked. Because he’d caught her warning Miranda that he was back?

“Jordan,” she murmured in acknowledgment, her gaze stalling out on the scarred side of his face, making Jordan wonder if she was even aware she’d spoken.

He gave her a cool nod and walked around her. He was almost to the porch when he noticed a broad-shouldered cowboy heading his way, pocketing a cell phone as he walked. Jordan ignored him and headed up the porch steps.

Once inside the house, he stopped dead. Miranda had made changes to the place before he’d left home, but now the house was barely recognizable. She’d knocked down walls, put in a large stone fireplace and replaced the old floors with new hardwood. Large oil paintings and blankets hung on the walls and the room smelled of pine and flowers. Had he woken up in this place, he never would have recognized it as the house where he’d grown up.

“May I help you?” A brisk feminine voice sounded from behind him just as the cowboy entered the room, his heavy boots echoing on the hardwood floor.

Jordan turned and for a moment simply stared at the two of them—the slender girl with the white shirt and bolo tie and the oversize guy in classic dude-ranch cowboy wear—then he cleared his dry throat and said, “Would you please tell Miranda that Jordan is here? She’ll know who I am.”

“Uh, sure,” the girl said, stepping around the desk and picking up the phone. Miranda already knew he was there. Shae had warned her he was coming and she’d summoned a bodyguard. He wondered if King Cowboy Kong was going to be in the meeting with them.

His body thrummed with adrenaline as he waited for the girl to speak to his ex-stepmother, and if he unclenched his good fist, he was pretty sure his hands would be shaking from the effort of putting on a good face, but he was doing okay. The big cowboy wasn’t wrestling him to the ground or anything and the girl was politely trying not to stare at his burns while she waited for Miranda to pick up—unlike Shae, who’d once again given his injuries the full once-over.

“Jordan’s here,” the girl said into the phone. “All right.” She put the phone down, missing the cradle on the first attempt and then settling the receiver in place on her second. “She’ll be right down.”

“Thanks,” Jordan murmured, feigning interest in the painting closest to him. It screamed big money, with its thick slashes of oil that somehow formed a desert landscape if one stepped back far enough. Still the big cowboy lingered. Jordan ignored him.

The sound of heeled boots on the stairs drew everyone’s attention as Miranda descended the steps. “Jordan,” she said after unhooking a small chain across the entryway. “You didn’t tell me you were coming home.”

He felt every muscle in his body go tense as she said home. The woman who’d done and was doing everything she could to make sure this wasn’t his home. Well played, Miranda. And he realized then that he could fantasize as much as he liked, but he would never put his hands around her throat, because he couldn’t stand the thought of touching her and he cringed when he recalled how she’d touched him.

“It was a spur-of-the-moment thing.” The words came out huskily, but he did manage to get them out. He couldn’t smile, though—couldn’t fake it that much.

Miranda could. Her smile seemed to light her face and she gave no sign of even noticing he looked much, much different than the last time she’d seen him. She must have practiced. “Come upstairs and we’ll talk.”

Jordan nodded and as he started toward the stairs, he caught the quick look Miranda sent the big cowboy. “Stay here and listen for trouble,” it clearly said. He felt like saying there wouldn’t be trouble, but refrained, playing the game. If Miranda could do it, so could he. He hoped.

The upstairs was no more recognizable than the first floor. There was another stone fireplace, more hardwood and tile. Expensive furniture.

“Let’s talk here,” she said, taking a seat on one of the sofas.

“Fine.” He sat on the sofa opposite of hers, his eyes never leaving her face.

“I’m glad to see you’re recovering from your accident,” she said, tilting her head to better see his injured face. “I wish you would have accepted our offer to come home and recuperate.”

Made just before his father had passed away, when he’d still had months of hospital therapy ahead of him. He hadn’t heard one word from her after his father had passed.

“What’s going on with the High Camp, Miranda?” His voice was low, but steady, which was nothing short of a miracle considering the amount of adrenaline coursing through his body.

“You mean why is Shae McArthur there?” Miranda leaned back against her cushion, stretching an arm along the back of the sofa. “Because she’s working on a proposal for the property and I’m eager to see what she comes up with.”

At which point in the conversation, he was probably supposed to explode.

Surprise, Miranda...I’m not going to give you the satisfaction.

Flicking a piece of lint off his sleeve, he said, “I mean, why on my property without consulting me?”

A tiny smile began to play at the edges of Miranda’s mouth as she seemed to realize that her opponent was of a higher caliber than she’d anticipated. “I inherited the operations lease from your father.”

Jordan kept his expression as blank as possible, watching for Miranda’s reaction to his lack of reaction. Nothing. “Will you be farming?”

“No. I’m looking at creating a satellite guest ranch there.”

Jordan’s pulse spiked and he knew from Miranda’s expression that she’d observed and noted his reaction. One point for her.

“What makes you think you have a right to do anything but farm the place?”

Miranda gave an exaggerated shrug. “Because upon reading the lease, I noticed that it said, ‘operations.’ It didn’t say, ‘farm operations.’ Simply ‘operations.’”

“The lease was written for farming.”

“Then it was written poorly, because it is not exclusive to farming,” Miranda said. “And there’s also that recreational-use clause. I’ll have my lawyer send a copy if you don’t believe me. Should it go to you or...?”

“Emery Anderson.” Who would no doubt confirm what she’d just said, but maybe he could also find a loophole.

“As you wish. And, as you no doubt recall,” she said smoothly, “the lease is for twenty years. There are twelve years left on the contract.”

Jordan focused on the spotless glass coffee table in front of him, the muscles in his jaw tightening as he considered twelve years of battling Miranda. Which was exactly what she was counting on. That and his losing control. If he did, then Miranda would win the first battle—and the big cowboy waiting downstairs would probably feed him the floor. Slowly he raised a steely gaze back up to his former stepmother.

“You understand that you can’t interfere with my operations on the place,” she said.

“And you can’t interfere with my occupancy,” he replied. “You have right to some of the buildings—”

“All of the buildings.”

“Only those south of the east-west fence line. Not the house.”

Miranda’s pale red eyebrows drew together. “Have you been reading the lease contract?” she asked curiously.

“I’m not that out of it or damaged or whatever the hell you think I am. When I found Shae there, I decided to check into things.”

“You were fast.”

“I’ve learned from experience it doesn’t pay to be slow when you’re involved.”

“Would you be interested in selling?” she asked, as if he hadn’t spoken. Jordan had fully expected a buyout offer, but he hadn’t expected it today. He’d figured she’d attempt to drive him out first. “I’ll pay you market value, which might not be as high as you like, but would easily give you enough to buy elsewhere.” She cocked her head, her red hair sliding over her shoulder. “Away from the memories. I recall that you don’t much care for this ranch in its present incarnation and you probably won’t like the High Camp after I get done with it.”

“No.”

“You don’t like the ranch?”

“I’m not selling.”

“Don’t be hasty, Jordan. Think about your future. Don’t let stubbornness cause you to make the wrong decision. It won’t be easy to sell the place, encumbered as it is, if at some point in the future you find you don’t like living there. And if it comes to that—” she gave an elegant shrug “—my offer may not be so generous.”

Jordan got to his feet, glanced around the room, which had at one time held exactly one worn sofa, reloading and fly-tying equipment, and leather tools. There’d been a time he’d associated this room with his dad. No more. The woman had wiped all signs of Hank Bryan out of this house.

Miranda stood and calmly met his eyes. “Think about my offer, Jordan. It makes sense. Staying at the High Camp will only continue to remind you of everything you’ve been so open about despising. You know...the things that have made this ranch a viable operation.” She took a step forward, as if she were going to touch him, and Jordan automatically stepped back. “I can help you find another place. I have the resources.”

His anger began to rise, but he choked it back down. “Thanks,” he said flatly as he turned to go.

“If you change your mind, the offer stands.” He didn’t slow down, gave no indication of having heard her, taking the stairs two at a time and then walking past the bodyguard and receptionist without looking at either one of them.

Oh, yeah. He was certain the offer would stand. And just as certain that he wasn’t taking it. Miranda had won every throwdown between them. She wasn’t winning this one.

“Jordan!”

He stopped on the porch and turned to see Miranda behind him. She must have taken the steps two at a time herself. “What?”

“My lawyer and I will be in contact. Soon. Just so we understand one another. And in the meantime...cooperate with Shae.”

* * *

THE ONLY THING Jordan didn’t buy on his supply list was a chain saw to take care of the tree in the road. He recalled an ancient McCulloch at the ranch—if he could find it, he’d try to get it running. If not, he was fairly certain that Miranda would see to it that the log was removed. After all, she was the operator of this ranch...for now.

When he reached the log, he parked the Subaru a few feet away from it in the middle of the road and then started unloading his purchases, wondering if Shae was going to risk her Audi again tomorrow. She’d obviously reversed all the way back down the road earlier today. He’d seen where she had finally found a spot wide enough to turn around, and he’d also seen the numerous places where the car had slid into the deep ruts. Seeing the marks in the dirt had given him a sense of satisfaction. No one should drive an Audi on a road like this and if they did, they deserved what they got.

So what was he going to do when Shae showed up again?

He figured the first thing he should do was to take off his shirt. She’d been openly shocked when she’d seen the fingers that had been amputated by shrapnel and then burned by the flash of the explosion. The burns continued up his forearm, around his side and onto his back, where the worst scars lay, and the deep-tissue skin grafts were still healing. Remarkably, the majority of his shoulder had been spared, so he had mobility there, and the burns up his face were for the most part superficial. If you could count losing part of his ear as superficial. No grafts had been necessary there, but the damaged skin was red and shiny in places. Ugly.

Shae McArthur didn’t appear to do well with ugly, and he was going to use that to his advantage. He had to concede, though, that she’d made no attempt to hide the fact that she had been staring at his injuries. There were none of the darting glances that he’d come to expect as people attempted to wrap their minds around the extent of his injuries without appearing rude—and a part of Jordan kind of appreciated her openness. At least she was honest. The scars were there and she didn’t pretend they weren’t.

And she didn’t pretend they didn’t bother her, either.

Okay. One point for Shae for honesty.

But he was still taking his shirt off whenever he could.

Jordan unloaded his brand-new cheap tent, the sleeping bag he’d used on his cross-country trek, a box of groceries and his duffel bag of clothes, then proceeded to carry them around the windfall and load them onto the sturdy rubber-wheeled gardening wagon he’d bought. At almost two hundred dollars, it had all but wiped out his cash supply, but there was no way he’d be carrying much weight on his back and he figured the wagon would come in handy around the ranch.

Clyde instantly got the hang of what was going on and jumped up on top of the gear Jordan had piled into the wagon, his small body lurching and swaying when Jordan started pulling. Only a mile. No sweat.

Except that the wagon was heavy. He wasn’t used to the altitude and despite working out as much as his body would allow, he was gasping for air by the time the ranch came into view. The sun was starting to set and he still had a lot to do.

But at least he was alone.

It wasn’t until he’d unloaded everything into a pile that Jordan realized he’d left his pills in the car. He was not going back—it would be a pill-free night. If he didn’t sleep, tough. He wasn’t exactly a stranger to sleepless nights. And if he had a nightmare, the only one he’d disturb was Clyde—who was sticking to him like glue now that it was getting dark. Jordan didn’t know what kind of shape the house was in, and since he didn’t want to share with rodents, he started setting up his tent. If the fabric had been any thinner, it would have qualified as disposable, but it was all he’d been able to afford after the wagon purchase, and if the zipper worked, he could keep the rain off and the mosquitoes at bay.

He and Clyde had shared a couple of hamburgers prior to driving back to the camp, but now he was hungry again. Apparently Montana air was good for him, because food hadn’t been any kind of priority over the past year—just something he needed for survival. Until recently chewing had felt awkward and uncomfortable as the skin on his face healed, so he hadn’t taken much pleasure in food. Now he wished he had another burger. Instead he made do with a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich made by the light of a battery-operated lantern.

Feeling ridiculously exhausted after dragging the wagon to the ranch, he laid out his sleeping bag and settled on top of it, letting the sounds of the wilderness lull him. He didn’t expect to sleep that night—not easily, anyway—because sleep was never easy without the meds, but at least he could listen to the sounds of his childhood instead of the traffic on the thoroughfare near his Virginia apartment.

Clyde appeared to prefer the traffic noises. After nervously pacing the tent for at least ten minutes, snuffling the air and trying to see through the nylon at what was causing the fascinating noises outside, the poodle finally turned a few circles and collapsed in a curly heap against Jordan’s side. His eyes remained stubbornly open, though, fixed on the tent door. Jordan reached down to idly ruffle the hair on the poodle’s head, then a few seconds later his hand relaxed on the dog’s warm body.

That was the last thing Jordan remembered.