All For A Cowboy. Jeannie WattЧитать онлайн книгу.
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