All For A Cowboy. Jeannie WattЧитать онлайн книгу.
worked up, ready to put into place the next spring. If Miranda approved the proposal, then she’d oversee renovations and implement small-group beta test runs of all activities. After that...no promises.
Typical Miranda. But Shae had left feeling good—about the job ahead of her and about Miranda, who’d explained quite candidly why she’d let Shae go. Shae had to admit that given the same circumstances, she might have done the same thing. The job, whatever it might be, came first now, and, as Mel had pointed out when Shae called her with the good news, if she could get this project up and running, it would be gold on a résumé. She could see the presentation portfolio in her head—before and after pictures of the ranch she was about to rehabilitate on a shoestring budget. Smiling guests with big fish. A guy holding the horns of a trophy buck. A big campfire with manly men sitting around it laughing.
Good stuff.
But first she had to make it happen.
First she had to get there.
Shae rolled to a stop at the windfall tree across the road. Excellent. Getting out of the car, she walked to the tree, nudging it with the toe of her boot. Sturdy as a rock. There was no way she was going to move it.
She turned and looked at the road she’d just driven up. The trees had grown so close to the edge that it was going to be impossible to turn around, so she had two choices—drive the car in reverse down the road or walk on. It was the thought of backing around those ruts that convinced her. Not that backing around them would be any easier later in the day, but at least she would have completed the first step of her mission—to reconnoiter the abandoned ranch. As per Miranda’s suggestion, she planned to eventually live there during the renovation. It was, after all, almost forty miles from Missoula, and five of those miles were on unpaved roads—not exactly an easy day trip. She definitely needed to know what was necessary to live there comfortably and since she’d come this far, there was no sense turning back now.
* * *
THE SUBARU RATTLED as it bumped over the cattle guard at the bottom of High Camp road, the familiar sound something Jordan had never thought about missing until now. Home. He was almost home, close to a place where he could hole up and let the world go about its business and forget about him. He would return the favor.
“Almost there,” he said. Clyde bounced up to a sitting position, his tongue lolling out of his mouth as he watched the scenery roll slowly past. A rabbit darted across the road and the poodle practically hit the windshield in excitement.
Clyde was going to be a busy dog when they got to the ranch.
Jordan wondered what kind of shape the house was in. It’d been six years since he’d last seen the place; over a year since his father, who’d hayed the meadows and used the ranch as a hunting retreat for his buddies, had died. Jordan had no idea if his cousin Cole had done anything more than close the door.
Would it be full of mice?
Or just full of memories? He wasn’t certain which one would be worse. He figured he could check the place out, sleep in the Subaru one more night if necessary, then head to Missoula to get what he needed to make the place livable.
Less than a quarter mile up the road, the gravel thinned to bare dirt in places and he could see fresh tire tracks. Narrow car tracks rather than truck tracks. Who, other than him, would drive a car up this road? There was only one set of tracks—going in—so apparently he would soon find out.
Company. Great.
It had to be someone sightseeing or berry picking. People tended to explore the woods during the summer months—and apparently ignore the Private Road sign next to the cattle guard—so that made sense. Ironic that he came here to escape people and it appeared that the first thing he was going to have to do was kick someone off his property.
“I’ll be nice,” he muttered to the dog, who had edged closer to him as the road grew more rutted and the trees closed in, pressing his firm, warm body against Jordan’s side. Whoever had driven up the road hadn’t been deterred by the ever-deepening ruts. He was actually glad to see the ruts, since it meant that no one had been traveling the road regularly. It was his property, but he didn’t trust Miranda. He wasn’t even certain he could trust his cousin, Cole, who’d thrown in with his stepmother when she’d coerced his dad, Jordan’s uncle, to turn their ranch into a working dude ranch to make more money. Miranda did love money.
He rounded a sharp corner, then stopped. Ahead of him an expensive Audi was parked with its bumper practically touching the tree lying across the road. What the hell? An Audi? Really?
Jordan opened the car door and was instantly struck by the strong, familiar smell of pines and bracken and damp Montana earth. Something else he’d missed without even being aware of it.
“Stay here,” he said to the dog, who jumped back over the console to his side of the car at the command, obediently plopping his butt down in the passenger seat. Jordan closed the door, wondering not for the first time if the poodle understood English.
The Audi was locked and empty except for a leather briefcase and two map tubes in the backseat. Odd, to say the least. Jordan stepped away from the car, his eyes narrowing as he slowly surveyed his surroundings, looking for signs of movement in the brush or on the road past the tree. Nothing except for Clyde bouncing up and down in the Subaru.
Cool. Well, until he got a chain saw, this tree was staying where it was and there was nothing he could do except to walk on to the ranch. He went back to the car, found Clyde’s leash and settled his hat on his head, more than a little curious as to where the driver of the Audi was.
After crossing over the tree, Jordan put Clyde on the ground, where he raced around on the leash, sometimes getting jerked back if something particularly interesting caught his urban eye. And every now and again Jordan spotted footprints heading in the same direction as they were going—those of a smallish female wearing some kind of heeled boots. Not cowboy boots, but probably something along that line, which made him wonder if this person was part of Miranda’s crew, up here doing a monthly check or something.
That would be nice...but unlikely. Miranda didn’t like him enough to check on his property in his absence. Hell, she hadn’t even contacted him once while he’d been recovering in the burn unit. She’d probably hoped he’d die and then she’d have everything, instead of almost everything.
One last turn in the road and first the ancient barn, then the almost-as-ancient house, came into view. Jordan slowed down and then stopped. Damn. It looked the same as when he’d left—from a distance, anyway—but he was not overwhelmed by any kind of sense of at long last being home. In fact the scene struck him as being very much like an old photograph—a place he’d once loved, but could never go back to because it was lost to time.
Physically the ranch was still there, but while surveying the familiar scene Jordan instinctively knew that it would never feel the same as it had before he’d left. His dad was dead. Miranda lived on. All this ranch could be to him now was a sanctuary, a way to escape from the world and heal. The old times were gone, never to be recovered.
And he could live with that.
Hell, he had to live with that. He hadn’t exactly ingratiated himself to his superiors when he’d abruptly quit his job, so this was his future. Now all he had to do was figure out who was there horning in on his future.
As he got closer to the house, Clyde started pressing against his leg, as if sensing trouble ahead. The door to the house was wide-open and Jordan caught sight of movement inside.
Time for introductions and explanations.
He walked up onto the old porch, the thick boards echoing hollowly under his boots.
The woman he’d seen moving inside the house, oblivious to his approach, swung around at the sound of his footsteps, taking an immediate defensive stance as if she fully planned to take him out with a karate chop or something, her eyes wide.
Jordan stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of her.
No.