Читать книгу Cattleman's Heart - Lois Dyer Faye - Страница 9

“I ’m definitely not in California anymore.”

Rebecca Parrish Wallingford turned in a slow circle, her gaze sweeping the ranch yard. She braced herself against the open door of the rental car and took in the buildings set in a neat half circle around the dusty square. Weather and time had long since stripped the paint from the two-storied ranch house until it was a uniform dark gray. A tall, gnarled maple shaded the left side of the house, its leafy branches brushing against gray wood, the second story’s sashed windows and the roof of the deep porch that edged the front of the house. A matching maple sheltered the other side of the house, set back and slightly nearer the far end of the structure.

The building was silent, slumbering beneath the hot June sun. If people were within, Rebecca could neither see nor hear them.

She glanced past the house to the sprawling outbuildings on her left. New lumber and shingles created a patchwork of pale color against the weathered walls and roof of the large barn while the attached corral was constructed entirely of raw, unpainted wood. Three dusty pickup trucks stood outside a long shed just beyond the corral. The sound of hammers thudding against nails and the high-pitched scream of a saw slicing through wood broke the afternoon quiet.

A man stepped from the dim interior of the shed into the hot sunlight and strode toward the trucks.

He glanced toward the house, saw Rebecca and abruptly changed direction to angle away from the back of a truck loaded with lumber, and move toward her.

He was shirtless, a tool-hung carpenter’s belt riding low on his hips, its weight dragging the waistband of faded denim jeans below his navel. A straw cowboy hat shaded his face, leather gloves on his hands. Rebecca stared, riveted by the slow saunter of long legs, the gleam of hot sunlight on sleek brown shoulders, the supple flex and shift of muscles as he moved.

“Afternoon, ma’am.” He halted a few feet away. “Something I can do for you? Are you lost?”

His voice was a deep drawl. She felt the impact of his gaze when it met hers as if he’d reached out and touched her.

Shivers feathered up Rebecca’s spine and heat grew, easing its way through her body. Her black linen suit and white cotton shell, chosen for traveling in the summer heat, felt suddenly much too warm. Shocked by her reaction, she took a mental step back and desperately sought detachment.

Sweat dewed the angles and hollows of his face, dampening the ends of his hair where it curled, a shade too long, behind his ears and at his nape. Thick eyebrows, the same deep brown as his hair, arched over dark gold eyes, the sharply defined cheekbones—fit companions to a blade of a nose that was slightly crooked. Rebecca wondered fleetingly if he’d broken it sometime in the past. His wasn’t a classically handsome face but there was something so essentially male about him that Rebecca felt threatened by the raw power he exuded. At five feet eight inches tall, she rarely felt intimidated by males, but this man made her vividly aware that she was smaller boned and distinctly feminine.

Her reaction set alarm bells jangling inside her head.

And the way he was looking at her, his golden eyes hooded, hot with more than the afternoon heat, only made the alarms ring louder.

Other men had looked at her and she’d known they wanted her. She’d never felt the slightest physical reaction. Her heart hadn’t pounded harder. Her skin hadn’t heated. That this man could arouse a reaction with only a look was irritating beyond words.

“I hope I’m not lost. I’m looking for Jackson Rand, owner of the Rand Ranch.”

His gaze sharpened, a faint frown creasing his forehead.

“I’m Jackson Rand.”

Oh no. Rebecca stiffened. Her day had swiftly gone from bad to worse.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Rand.” She forced herself to step forward and extend her hand, steeling herself. His much bigger hand engulfed hers, his fingers and palm callused and hard against hers for a brief moment before he released her. “I’m Rebecca Wallingford with Bay Area Investments—I believe you’re expecting me.”

If Rebecca had stiffened, Jackson Rand went rigid. His gaze narrowed, swiftly flicking over Rebecca from head to toe in a swift searing assessment.

“No, I’m expecting a man named Walter Andersen.”

“Walter had a minor heart attack yesterday and I’ve been assigned to take his place. I trust I haven’t arrived at an inconvenient time?”

He stared at her for a long moment without speaking, his gaze unreadable.

“No,” he said finally. “The timing isn’t inconvenient, but I wasn’t expecting a woman.” He gestured toward the shed and barns. “We’re updating the outbuildings but the house hasn’t been touched and there’s no room for a woman.”

“I’m sure the accommodations you planned for Mr. Andersen will be perfectly fine for me, Mr. Rand. As long as I have a bed, somewhere to shower, brew a pot of tea and plug in my laptop, I’ll be perfectly comfortable.”

“I doubt that, lady. The house has four bedrooms and, at the moment, three of them are occupied by me and my crew. You’ll be the only woman in a house full of men.”

Rebecca schooled her face not to reflect her instant dismay. She’d been told that the owner of Rand Ranch would provide housing, but sharing that housing with a crew of men wasn’t a possibility she’d considered. Her mind raced, considering the problem.

“Did you assign a room to Mr. Andersen or was he going to share?”

“He would have had a room to himself,” Jackson said shortly.

“Then I’m afraid I don’t see the problem, Mr. Rand.”

“You don’t? Then let me lay it out for you. Moving a woman into a house with four men for several months is asking for trouble. Lots of trouble. And I’m too damn busy to deal with it.”

Rebecca struggled to ignore the quick rise of anger at his blunt comment. “I’m a professional, Mr. Rand. I often have to work with men. I’ve never had a problem before and I don’t expect to have one here.”

“Expect to.” His frown deepened. “Hank is too old to chase you, but he flat doesn’t like women and he’s not going to want you around. Mick and Gib are more likely to hit on you and fight over whoever wins.”

“I’m an engaged woman, Mr. Rand,” Rebecca said evenly, wondering just what she was getting into. I can always drive into Colson and look for a room if this situation becomes impossible. But Colson was a thirty-mile drive each way, which was the reason Jackson Rand had agreed to house Walter Andersen in the first place. “And, therefore, off-limits. But if your employees don’t respect my position, then I can deal with the problem.”

His expression didn’t change, but Rebecca didn’t miss the irritation that gleamed in Jackson Rand’s eyes.

“I doubt it, but I’ll put a lock on your door.”

She met his barely concealed frustration with a cool glance and lift of an eyebrow. “I appreciate that. Now, if you would show me where I’ll be staying, Mr. Rand. I’ve been traveling since 5:00 a.m. It’s been a long day.”

For the space of a heartbeat, Jackson didn’t move, his gaze unreadable. Then he seemed to reach a decision, tugged his hat lower over his forehead and nodded toward her car.

“Is your luggage in the trunk?”

“Yes.”

He held out his hand. Rebecca dropped the car keys into his palm, and he strode past her to the back of the car.

Rebecca drew a deep breath and bent, stretching across the interior of the car to reach for her purse and laptop on the passenger seat. Leather bags in hand, she closed the car door and turned, halting in midmovement when she nearly bumped into Jackson.

Startled, she took a quick step back, brought up short when her back met the warm metal of the car.

Jackson didn’t comment. He merely nodded toward the house, a suitcase in each hand and one tucked beneath his arm.

“After you.”

Vividly aware of the man walking behind her and the ease with which he carried her heavy bags, Rebecca moved past him. A split-rail fence enclosed the expanse of cropped grass surrounding the house and a weathered gate was set into the rails to access the stone path leading to the porch steps.

The metal latch on the old gate was shiny and new, opening easily beneath her hand. She stepped through onto the stone path and paused, thinking to close the gate behind Jackson, but he gave it a nudge with his boot and the old gate swung silently closed on new, well-oiled hinges.

Rebecca moved up the path ahead of him. Accustomed to the micromaintained, upscale homes in her native San Francisco, Rebecca was fascinated by the old house. Upon closer inspection, she realized that one of the three wide, shallow porch steps was new wood, obviously recently installed. The older boards on the porch floor creaked softly beneath her feet, Jackson’s boots ringing hollowly as he followed, then reached around her to pull open the screen door.

The room beyond was a square entry hallway with scarred wooden floors that gave onto a stairway to the right, an open doorway to a living room on the left, and a hallway ahead that clearly led to the back of the first floor.

What she could see of the old house reminded Rebecca of a friend’s house undergoing restoration in Daly City, one of the older suburbs of San Francisco.

“The bedrooms are upstairs.”

Jackson’s deep drawl startled Rebecca, and she turned to follow him upstairs, trailing her hand over the newel post and the oak banister, worn smooth and satiny.

Five doors stood open along the hallway, a worn runner patterned in faded pink cabbage roses filling its length.

Jackson strode down the hall ahead of her.

“This is the bathroom. There’s only one.” He barely paused as he passed the door.

Rebecca caught a quick impression of black-and-white tiles, a pedestal sink and a huge claw-foot white bathtub as she inhaled a heady mix of soap and male aftershave.

“You can use this bedroom.” He disappeared through a door at the far end of the hall.

Rebecca paused on the threshold, swiftly scanning the room. Jackson deposited her bags at the foot of a simple, white-painted iron bedstead. An oak nightstand with a lamp centered atop its otherwise bare surface was next to the bed, and an old but solid oak dresser stood against the far wall, across from the open doors of a small closet where a cluster of empty wire hangers hung on the wooden rod. A small, square table was placed beneath the window; a straight-backed wooden chair next to it didn’t match the table but looked sturdy enough.

No pictures hung on the bare walls, no curtains draped the tall, sashed window. The room held only the bare essentials but it was scrupulously clean.

“It’s not fancy.”

Rebecca glanced quickly at Jackson and found him watching her, arms folded across his chest.

“It’s fine,” she assured him, smiling slightly at his look of disbelief. “Believe me, I’ve stayed in much worse places. This is perfectly okay.”

“If you say so.”

He looked unconvinced, but shrugged and moved toward the door. He paused on the threshold, looking back at her.

“Make yourself at home. I’ll be working down at the barn until six or so, but this evening we can go over the books.”

“That sounds good,” Rebecca agreed.

He nodded abruptly, turned on his heel and left.

Rebecca stood motionless, listening to the sound of his boots against the bare oak floors as he descended the stairs and crossed the hallway, then the squeak and slam of the screen door as he left the house.

“Well.” She dropped onto the edge of the bed, toed off her shoes and stared blankly at the bare wall.

She wasn’t sure what she’d expected from the owner of the Rand Ranch, but she definitely hadn’t anticipated a man like Jackson Rand.

She’d worked for her mother’s venture capital firm for the last four years, ever since she graduated from college. She’d often been assigned on-site work with various firms, requiring her to travel to the area and remain there for several weeks. This was different. When her mother, Kathleen, the head of Bay Area Investments, had asked her to fill in for a co-worker stricken with a sudden illness, she’d readily agreed. She wasn’t elated to learn that the assignment called for a stay of two months, perhaps longer, on a ranch in eastern Montana, and she was puzzled by her mother’s decision to loan hundreds of thousands of dollars to a rancher. Kathleen’s usual investments were in high-profile business ventures and her specialty was San Francisco real estate. When she’d questioned her mother, Kathleen’s response that the investment was well-researched and wise had left Rebecca debating her mother’s decision-making for the first time.

More important than the puzzle of why her mother had agreed to lend money to Jackson Rand, however, was her reaction to the rancher.

Rebecca recognized the signs of physical attraction—the heat that moved through her veins when he was near, the increased pace of her heartbeat. She’d felt those same things when she’d had a crush at seventeen. The crush had ended badly and the experience had reinforced the bitter lessons hammered home by her stepfather over the years. Harold Wallingford had never let her forget that she was illegitimate, the product of a passionate liaison by her mother before she married him. Harold’s too frequent comments and her unfortunate experience at seventeen had taught Rebecca a valuable lesson—that common sense went out the window when hormones took over. She’d avoided any recurrence of the madness of attraction ever since and she’d been amazingly lucky. She’d even chosen her fiancé, Steven, based on common interests and goals. No passion raged between them, and Rebecca reminded herself that she was glad his kisses generated only mild pleasure with no trace of out-of-control emotions.

She glanced down at her hand and smoothed a fingertip over the diamond solitaire. There was no reason to think that her status as an engaged woman wouldn’t hold the men at the Rand Ranch at arm’s length. Especially Jackson Rand. Because she was determined to control any impulses from her own wildly attracted hormones. Discipline and commitment.

That decided, Rebecca stood, stripping off her black linen suit jacket. She unzipped the pencil-straight matching skirt and padded on stockinged feet to the closet. The wire hangers weren’t the best for the expensive linen, but Rebecca had long since learned to make do while traveling. She pulled the white cotton, short-sleeved shell off over her head and dropped it on the bed before swinging one of the suitcases atop the blanket-covered sheets.

There was no spread on the bed, but the corners of the blankets and sheets were folded and tucked with military preciseness. Rebecca wondered if Jackson had done a stint in the army. He’d certainly learned neatness somewhere. The small glimpses she’d caught of the house plus the appearance of her bedroom all testified that Jackson Rand was a man with a tendency toward sparse, clean, tidy surroundings.

She hoped he was as careful about his financial dealings. It would make her job over the next few months much easier. Clients who had to be reminded to be fiscally cautious were often difficult clients, and she suspected that handling Jackson Rand in any aspect wouldn’t be an easy task.

Accustomed to traveling light, Rebecca unpacked with quick efficiency and tucked her empty suitcases into the back of the small closet. Then she pulled on a green silk tank top and tucked it into the waistband of a gathered cotton skirt, slid her feet into leather sandals, picked up a box of English Breakfast tea bags from the blanket-covered bed and headed back downstairs.

She felt a bit as if she were intruding but, as Jackson’s home would also be her home for the next few months, she ignored the concern and walked down the hall into the kitchen.

The stripped-down tone of the rest of the house was evident in the kitchen, also, but the wide window over the sink and the back door’s square glass let in cheery sunlight. There was something very welcoming and warm about the knotty-pine cupboards with their plain white counters. A square maple table and chairs took up one corner of the room and a white stove and refrigerator faced each other at opposite ends of the cabinets.

The house was nothing like the Knob Hill mansion she’d grown up in, nor the apartment she’d bought after college and where she now lived. The upscale rooms on the twentieth floor of a posh building on Van Ness Avenue, a bustling downtown location, were a planet removed from these. But the differences only made the house more interesting.

“Nothing fancy, but very functional,” Rebecca murmured, her gaze slowly surveying the kitchen. A battered copper teakettle sat on a back burner of the stove. “Ah,” she said with satisfaction.

It took only moments to fill the kettle with cold tap water and set it on the stove to heat. Rebecca opened cupboard doors until she found several mugs. The one she took down had a Montana State Fair and Rodeo emblem on the side. None of the cupboards held good china, although there was a collection of mismatched dishes, glasses, cups and bowls.

While she waited for the kettle to boil, she glanced at the clock and realized that it was nearly five o’clock.

Rebecca was hungry. She’d swallowed less than half of the limp chicken and dry rice served as lunch on the plane. Then she’d downed a bottle of water and a candy bar while waiting for her rental car to be processed at the airport, but except for two tall take-out coffees she drank on the drive from Billings to Colson and the bagel she’d eaten at her 6:00 a.m. meeting before leaving for the airport in San Francisco, that was the sum total of her food intake for the day.

She was beyond hungry. She was starved.

The teakettle whistled, startling her and she quickly poured boiling water into her mug.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Rebecca jumped and spun to look at the door. A man stood just outside the screen door in the utility room. He yanked open the door and stepped into the kitchen, and she got a clearer view of him. He wasn’t a tall man; in fact, he was probably an inch or so shorter than her own five feet eight, but his legs were bowed and his back slightly bent, making it difficult to know how tall he might have been when young. His dusty jeans and snap-front western shirt were faded blue and worn white in places, his brown cowboy boots smeared with mud. At least, Rebecca assumed it was mud. She wasn’t sure. A shock of white hair was startlingly pale against the dark, weathered tan of his lined face, and bright blue eyes watched her suspiciously.

“Well?” he demanded.

Rebecca realized that she’d been staring, speechless, at him and hadn’t answered his question.

“I’m just brewing a mug of tea,” she offered. He didn’t relax, his gaze just as suspicious. “I’m the accountant from Bay Area Investments.”

The blue gaze sharpened. “I thought the accountant was a man.”

“He was. Is. He was stricken with a sudden illness, and the company sent me to take his place.”

“Humph,” the old man snorted. “That’s ridiculous. We can’t have a woman on the place.”

“So Mr. Rand said,” Rebecca said dryly, wondering if every man on Rand Ranch would dislike her on sight. “I’m guessing that you must be Hank?”

“That’s right. How’d you know?”

“Mr. Rand mentioned that one of the four men staying here didn’t care for women.”

“That’s right. I don’t. Women are nothin’ but trouble.”

“I promise I’ll do my best not to cause any trouble,” Rebecca assured him gravely.

“Hah. Promise all you want, won’t make any difference. Trouble follows women, regardless of what they say.”

Rebecca could see that the conversation wasn’t getting anywhere.

“I was just making a mug of tea, Mr., um, Hank. Would you like one?”

He gave her a withering glare. “No. Don’t drink tea. That’s a woman’s drink, ’cept for iced tea loaded with sugar in the summertime.”

“Oh.” Rebecca bit the inside of her lip to keep from grinning. Hank reminded her of elderly Mr. Althorpe, her neighbor at her condo in San Francisco. He proclaimed long and loud that he hated women, but he was a soft touch for the double-chocolate brownies she brought him from the bakery on the next block. She wondered briefly if the bakery would give her the recipe so she could try chocolate bribery on Hank.

“Men drink coffee, beer or whiskey,” the old man proclaimed, stomping to the sink. He scrubbed his hands and face, drying them on the towel hung on a rack inside the lower cabinet door.

“Would you like me to make you coffee, then?”

“No.” He shot her a scathing glance. “Women never make it strong enough.”

“Ah, I see.” She collected her tea, tossed the tea bag in the trash, stirred in sugar and retreated to the relative safety of the table.

“If you’re gonna be livin’ here, you’re gonna have to help with chores,” Hank warned.

“Certainly. Is there a schedule?”

“Of sorts. I do most of the cookin’ and everybody else helps out with cleanin’ up in the kitchen and the rest of the house.”

Rebecca didn’t miss the pointed look Hank gave her. Clearly, the kitchen was Hank’s territory.

“Can I help you with dinner tonight?” she offered, expecting him to refuse. To her surprise, he didn’t.

“Since I’m runnin’ late tonight, I suppose you can,” he agreed grumpily.

“What can I do?” She stood.

“You can get five good-sized baking potatoes from the sack in the basement. The door to the cellar is on the back porch.”

“Right.” Rebecca stepped into the utility room. A washer and dryer took up half of one wall, the other half lined with coat hooks and a collection of jackets. Below them, several pairs of rubber or leather boots stood. The far wall had more hooks for jackets and the door to the back step, standing open with the screen door outside closed. To her left, cabinets lined the wall on each side of a door. She pulled open the door, flicked on the switch and carefully descended steep stairs to the cool, concrete-walled basement. Rough plank shelves lined the walls, filled with enough canned goods to feed an army. She found the gunny sack of potatoes leaning against the wall. Juggling an armful, she left the basement for the kitchen and crossed to the sink. Hank shot her a glance when she tumbled the pile into the sink and began to wash them. Without commenting, she scrubbed them clean, deftly stabbed each three times with a knife from the block atop the counter and slipped them into the oven, setting the temperature at four hundred.

“Potatoes are in,” she told Hank. “What else can I do?”

When Jackson opened the back door and stepped into the utility room off the kitchen, it was nearly six-thirty. He was hot, dirty and tired. And he still hadn’t decided what he was going to do about Rebecca Wallingford.

He saw her through the screen door to the kitchen the minute he stepped into the utility room. She was standing with her back to him, stirring something in a pan on the stove. Gone was the sophisticated black business suit and heels, replaced by a gathered white skirt that cinched in at her narrow waist and left the smooth, tanned length of legs bare from above her knees. The old radio on the shelf by the back door was tuned to a rock-and-roll station, and her ebony ponytail swung back and forth, brushing her nape as she swayed to the music.

Emotions, basic and primitive, stirred in Jackson. He easily recognized the surge of lust in the mix. Rebecca Wallingford was a beautiful woman; he’d have to be a eunuch not to respond to her. The other reactions were more difficult to analyze. He suspected that it had something to do with coming in from work and finding a beautiful woman cooking dinner in his kitchen. The inferences to hearth and home and a woman of his own were obvious.

Oh, no. I’m not going there.

He stepped inside the kitchen and turned down the volume on the radio. Rebecca spun around, her hand flying to her heart.

“Oh, it’s you. You startled me.”

“Sorry.” For a long moment, he couldn’t look away from wide emerald eyes fringed with thick black lashes. She had a mouth that conjured up erotic fantasies, and the green tank top clung to full breasts that the suit jacket she’d worn earlier had concealed. He realized that he was staring and yanked his gaze away from her chest to glance past her at the stove. “Where’s Hank?”

“He went to the basement to find canned peaches for dessert.”

Behind Jackson, the sound of male voices and laughter grew louder. The back-room door slapped shut, then the inner screen door opened and two men stepped into the kitchen. They halted abruptly just inside the door and stared at Rebecca with identical expressions of surprise and interest.

“Whoa. Who’s this?”

The taller of the two grinned at her, his blue eyes alive with interest on an open, friendly face beneath close-cropped blond hair. The other man was shorter, with dark brown hair and a handsome face. Rebecca instinctively liked the taller man and withheld judgment on the handsome one.

She glanced at Jackson and found him watching her reaction, eyes narrowed.

“This is the accountant. She’ll be staying here for the next couple of months or so. Rebecca Wallingford,” he nodded at the blond man, “this is Gib Thompson…”

“Hello.” The lanky young man grinned and nodded a greeting.

“…and Mick Haworth.”

“Pleased to meet you.” An engaging smile wreathed Mick’s handsome face.

“It’s nice to meet you, too.”

“Where are you from, Rebecca?” Gib asked.

“San Francisco.”

“Yeah? Are you…”

“Out of the way.” Hank’s testy voice interrupted them. He elbowed his way past Mick and Gib and shot them a glare. “If you two want to eat tonight, you’d better get washed up. I ain’t waitin’ dinner on you while you stand here jawin’ with Rebecca.”

The two shot Rebecca apologetic looks and left the room. Their boots sounded on the stairs, the din of their friendly arguing floating behind them down the stairway.

“You, too, boss.”

Jackson left the kitchen without comment. The radio played an old Stones tune as his boots sounded on the stair treads.

By the time Jackson and the other two came back downstairs, faces, hands and arms washed free of dust and grime, Rebecca was folding napkins and tucking them under silverware. The maple table was set with mismatched china, a crockery bowl filled with salad greens and red tomatoes making a bright spot of color against the wooden tabletop. Hank forked steaks onto a platter and set it on the table.

“Well, come on, set down and eat before everything gets cold.”

Chairs scraped against the wooden floor, Mick and Gib jostling each other to pull out Rebecca’s chair. Jackson gave them a steely glare and they retreated to their own seats. Rebecca calmly seated herself and picked up her napkin.

For a few moments, the silence was punctuated only by requests to pass food and the scrape of spoons and forks against bowls and plates.

The quiet was broken by Gib.

“So, Rebecca, you’re an accountant? In San Francisco?”

“Yes.” She picked up her water glass and sipped. “I work for an investment firm downtown.”

“And you do this often?” Mick asked.

Rebecca glanced up. “Do I do what often?”

“Travel to a strange place and live with strangers?”

“I travel a lot,” she conceded. “But I usually stay in a hotel room by myself.”

“And that doesn’t bother you, traveling all the time?” Gib asked, his voice curious.

“No, not at all. I like visiting new places, meeting new people.”

“And you don’t miss being at home?”

Rebecca had a quick mental image of her San Francisco apartment with its few pieces of furniture and the unpacked boxes still shoved into closets after three years. Her busy traveling life left little time to build a nest. “I miss San Francisco,” she admitted. “I love the city. But I rarely get homesick when I’m away. I’m usually too busy working and exploring a new city.”

“So most of your jobs are in the city?” Mick asked, ignoring his half-eaten steak to stare at her.

“Until now, all of my clients have been located in medium to large cities. But that doesn’t mean that our firm never has clients in smaller towns.”

“But you’ve never worked in a small town,” Jackson interjected.

“No,” Rebecca admitted. She lifted an eyebrow, trying to keep annoyance from her voice. “Are you concerned about my ability to deal with a rural-based business rather than an urban corporation?”

“No.” He shook his head. “I’m concerned with your ability to put up with the isolation of a ranch after living in the city.”

“I have a car,” she pointed out. “And Colson isn’t that far away.”

“True. But Colson isn’t San Francisco, not even close. You’re a long way from gourmet restaurants, Starbucks coffee and the opera.”

“I don’t go to the opera.”

He shrugged. “Then, the ballet. Whatever it is that you like to do in the city, you’re not likely to find here.”

“Maybe not.” She narrowed her eyes, determined to squelch the urge to lose her temper. “But I’m sure there are other things unique to the area and unavailable in the city that I’ll find here.”

He looked unconvinced. “I’m sure there are, but I doubt you’ll like any of them.”

Rebecca forced a small smile. “I have no doubt I’ll find them fascinating. In any event, I won’t be here forever. Two or three months is longer than my usual assignments but the time will pass quickly enough.”

“You don’t usually stay at a company for three months? Why so long this time?”

His question seemed casual, but Rebecca didn’t miss the intensity with which he watched her.

“I don’t know.” She was suddenly aware that everyone at the table had stopped eating, their attention wholly focused on her. She chose her words carefully. “As far as I know, this is the first time Bay Area Investments has made a loan to a rancher. Perhaps the company is being cautious because this is a trial project in a new area.”

“Maybe.” Jackson was unconvinced. Gut instinct told him that she was holding something back. She sipped water, and her gaze met his without evasion over the rim of the glass. He didn’t think she was lying, but doubted she was telling him everything she knew.

Rebecca glanced around the table. “This steak is excellent,” she said politely, changing the subject without worrying about subtlety. “Is it from beef raised here on the ranch?”

Hank hooted. Jackson’s mouth twisted with wry humor.

“I wish I could say yes. The few cattle left on the place when I took over were wild and tough as raw-hide.” He gestured at the steak on her plate. “This came from a neighbor. I traded him a side of beef for some repair work I did on his barn roof.”

“So you don’t raise beef? I thought I read in the report that you raised cattle?”

“I raise purebred bulls for breeding. A bull-breeding operation can be very profitable, if done right, but the start-up costs are prohibitive because of the high price of investing in good stock.”

“Ah. I see.” Rebecca sipped her ice water and thought about his words. “So the initial investment is high, but the return is equally high?”

“It can be. If you’re lucky. And careful.”

“I understand that caution is important to any business, but how is being lucky important for profit in breeding bulls?”

“Because there are a hundred problems that can keep a bull from being able to reproduce—if the owner is unlucky enough to have a sick bull, the profit is zero.”

“I see.” Jackson’s comments brought home to Rebecca the inherent risk of investing in a business based on living animals. Once again, she wondered why her mother had gambled company money on the Rand Ranch.

“And a purebred bull can be downright touchy about procreatin’,” Hank interjected. “No matter what the BSE report says, he might have problems.”

“What’s a BSE report?” Rebecca inquired, curious.

“It stands for Breeding Soundness Examination and it’s an exam by a vet to verify that the animal is healthy,” Jackson explained.

“Oh.” Rebecca wasn’t sure just how much information she wanted him to explain to her about the breeding problems of bulls.

Jackson pushed back his chair and stood, gathering up his plate and utensils.

“When you’re done eating, I’ll show you the computer and the books.”

“I’m finished.” She stood, too, and carried her plate and utensils to the sink.

“It’s Gib and Mick’s night to wash the dishes.” Jackson took them from her. “You helped cook dinner, they’ll clean.”

“All right.” Not about to argue, Rebecca tucked a strand of hair that had escaped from her ponytail holder back behind her ear. “If you’ll show me where the office is, I’ll be glad to get acquainted with the computer and your bookkeeping system.”

“It’s down the hall, first door on the left.”

He stood back, waiting for her to precede him, and Rebecca nodded to the others and left the room.

The office was tucked between the kitchen and the stairway; Jackson pushed the door open and stood back to let Rebecca enter. Twice the size of her bedroom, the office had two tall sashed windows without curtains, white-painted walls, an old-fashioned oak desk and a bulky leather-covered sofa and chair. She took several steps into the room and paused, diverted by the large map that took up much of the wall behind the desk. A rough wood frame edged the glass that covered the yellowed hand-drawn map. The county was divided into ranches, heavy black lines marking the boundaries, while Colson and other towns were inked in with a lighter hand and set apart with a lopsided star.

The door clicked shut and Jackson halted beside her, his gaze following hers to the map.

“I think old Eli’s grandfather drew that,” he commented. “He was a surveyor for the U.S. government before he came west and homesteaded this place.”

“Fascinating,” Rebecca murmured. “He would have been your great-great-grandfather?”

“Something like that.” Jackson shrugged. “Eli was my great-uncle, but I’m not sure exactly how the family tree shakes out.”

“Did you grow up here?” Her gaze found his name printed in neat black ink beneath the faded letters spelling out “Eli Kuhlman.” The expanse of land that surrounded the names appeared enormous.

“Hell, no,” Jackson said shortly. “I never knew about Eli or this ranch until I got a letter from an attorney telling me that he’d died and left it to me.”

“Oh.” She wanted to ask him why he hadn’t known that he had a great-uncle who owned an enormous property. She glanced sideways at him. His attention was focused on the big map, his eyes narrowed, the lines of his face taut and forbidding. Despite her curiosity, caution kept her from questioning him further.

His gaze left the map and met hers for a brief second before he looked away.

“The computer is new,” he said abruptly, gesturing toward the desk where several unopened boxes were stacked on the floor, the top one even with the desktop. “I haven’t unpacked it yet.”

He walked to the desk and Rebecca followed, noting that the brand name stamped on the boxes was a computer she particularly favored. Jackson pulled out the old-fashioned desk chair, the oiled casters rolling quietly over the scarred wooden floor.

“Have a seat.”

It was more an order than a polite invitation but Rebecca didn’t comment. Instead, she seated herself in the worn, brown leather chair while Jackson snagged a straight-backed oaken chair and dragged it nearer the desk. His scent surrounded her, an indefinable mix of soap and male. Awareness shivered up her spine, lifting the fine hairs at her nape.

“These are the ledgers for the last thirty years.” Jackson reached across the desk and picked up a stack of books, setting them squarely on the bare oak desktop in front of Rebecca. The hardcover green ledgers, worn from use and faded with age, had entries in a spidery, often illegible hand.

For the next hour, Jackson explained the handwritten bookkeeping system that the previous owner, Eli Kuhlman, had used. Reading the notes soon had Rebecca’s eyes aching from strain.

The greatest strain, however, came from being in such close proximity to Jackson. He straddled the chair, his forearms crossed along the square wooden back. On one occasion, he stood and leaned over her at the desk, pointing out and explaining an item in a ledger, his arm twice brushing against hers. Waiting for him to touch her again had her nerves strung taut until she wanted to scream with tension.

By the time Jackson left to make a last check of the barns and she climbed the stairs to bed, her nerves were jangling.