All for a Cowboy

“No doubt. What does he look like?”

Shae gestured helplessly as she tried to come up with an adequate description—as if it mattered. “One side of his face is scarred and his left hand is...really damaged. Burned and missing some fingers.”

Miranda grimaced, but didn’t appear particularly sympathetic. “Was he agitated?”

“He thinks he owns the land. All of it.”

“I understand that,” she said coolly, making Shae wonder just who did own the land.

“Yes, he was agitated. And tired and edgy and he’d looked as if he’d been sleeping in his clothes.” And I’m worried as hell that he’s going to screw up this job for me.

Miranda tapped a short manicured nail on the desktop, her lips pressed together as she thought. “All right,” she finally said, meeting Shae’s eyes. “I appreciate you driving all the way over here to warn me.”

“Well, he did seem...agitated,” she said.

Miranda rose to her feet. “I’ll take care of matters,” she said reassuringly. “Would you mind giving me your cell number so I can get hold of you later?”

Shae’s stomach clenched. Was she going to get fired again? Twice in one month? “Sure,” she said, taking up a pen off the desk and writing her number on the small notepad in the gold holder.

“I’ll be in contact,” Miranda said. “Soon.” Shae forced a smile before she headed for the stairs. “Shae?”

Shae turned back.

“Don’t worry. Okay?”

“I won’t,” she lied, then disappeared down the stairs.

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?”