All for a Cowboy

“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.”