McKettrick's Luck (6 page)

She landed with a thump that echoed from her tailbone to the top of her spine.

“You can let go of the horn,” he said. “Pardner will stand there like a monument in the park until I get on Minotaur and take off.”

Cheyenne released her two-handed death grip, finger by finger. “You won't make him run?”

Jesse laid a worn leather strap in her left palm, closed her hand around it, then ducked under Pardner's head to do the same on the other side. “Hold the reins loosely,” he instructed, “like this. He'll stop at a light tug, so don't yank. That'll hurt him.”

Cheyenne nodded nervously. The creature probably weighed as much as a Volkswagen, and if either of them got hurt, odds on, it would be her. Just the same, she didn't want to cause him any pain.

She was in good shape, but the insides of her thighs were already beginning to ache. She wondered if it would be ethical to put a gallon or two of Ben-Gay on her expense account so she could dip herself in the stuff when she got home.

“You're okay?” Jesse asked after a few beats.

She bit down hard on her lower lip and nodded once, briskly.

He smiled, laid a hand lightly to her thigh, and turned to mount his horse with the easy grace of a movie cowboy. If Nigel had been there, armed with his seemingly endless supply of clichés, he probably would have remarked that Jesse McKettrick looked as though he'd been born on horseback, or that he and the animal might have been a single entity.

Jesse nudged his horse's sides with the heels of his boots, and it began to walk away.

“No spurs?” Cheyenne asked, drawing on celluloid references, which constituted the extent of her knowledge of cowboys. It was an inane conversation, but Pardner was moving, and she had to talk to keep herself calm.

Jesse frowned as though she'd suggested stabbing the poor critter with a pitchfork. “No spurs on the Triple M,” he said.
“Ever.”

Cheyenne clutched the reins, her hands sweating, and waited for her heart to squirm back down out of her throat and resume its normal beat. The ride wasn't so bad, really—just a sort of rolling jostle.

As long as an impromptu Kentucky Derby didn't break out, she might just survive this episode. Anyway, it was a refreshing change from shuffling paperwork, juggling calls from Nigel and constantly meeting with prospective investors.

Reaching a pasture gate, Jesse leaned from the saddle of his gelding to free the latch. The fences, Cheyenne noted, now that she wasn't hyperventilating anymore, were split-rail as far as she could see. The wood was weathered, possibly as old as the historic schoolhouse Jesse had promised to show her when they got back, and yet the poles stood straight.

Just as there were no spurs on the Triple M, she concluded, there appeared to be no barbed wire, either. Considering the size of the spread—the local joke was that the place was measured in counties rather than acres—that was no small feat.

Cheyenne rode through the gate, waited while Jesse shut it again.

“I don't see any barbwire,” she said.

“You won't,” Jesse answered, adjusting his hat so the brim came down low over his eyes. “There isn't any. Horses manage to tear themselves up enough as it is, without rusty spikes ripping into their hide.”

In spite of all he was putting her through, before he'd even agree to look at the blueprints for Nigel's development, Jesse rose a little in Cheyenne's estimation. Spurs were cruel, and so was barbed wire. He clearly disapproved of both, and Cheyenne had to give him points for compassion.

Jesse had never been mean, she reminded herself. He'd been wild, though. Even in high school, he'd been a seasoned poker player—she'd seen him in illicit games with her dad and some of the other old-timers long before he was of age.

“Is this what you do all day?” she asked, as they rode through high, fragrant grass toward a distant ridge. White clouds scalloped the horizon like foam on an ocean tide, and the sky was the same shade of blue as Jesse's eyes.

One side of his mouth cocked up in a grin, and he adjusted his hat again. “Is
what
what I do all day? Ride the range with good-looking women, you mean?”

Cheyenne was foolishly pleased by the compliment, however indirect, though the practical part of her said she was being played and she'd better beware. She'd dated, when she had the time, and even had had one or two fairly serious relationships, but Jesse McKettrick was way out of her league. Forgetting that could only get her into trouble.

She smiled, held both reins in one hand so she could wipe a damp palm dry on the leg of Jesse's mother's jeans, and then repeated the process with the other. “You must herd cattle and things like that,” she said, as if he needed prompting.

“Rance would like to run a few hundred head of beef,” Jesse answered, picking up the pace just a little, so both horses accelerated into a fast walk. “The Triple M isn't really in the cattle business anymore. It's more like what the easterners call hobby farming. I train the occasional horse, ride in a rodeo once in a while, and play a hell of a lot of poker. What about you, Cheyenne? What do
you
do all day?”

“I
work,
” she said, and then realized she'd sounded like a self-righteous prig, and immediately wished she wasn't too damn proud to backpedal.

He pretended to pull an arrow, or maybe a poisoned spear, out of his chest, but his grin was as saucy as ever. Nothing
she
could say was going to get under that thick McKettrick hide.

Not that she really wanted to. Much.

“How far are we going to ride?” she asked, closing the figurative barn door after the horse was long gone.

“Just onto that ridge up there,” Jesse answered, pointing. His horse was trotting now, and Cheyenne's kept pace. “You can see clear across to the county road from just outside the Triple M fence line. It'll take your breath away.”

Cheyenne swallowed, bouncing so hard in the saddle that she had to be careful not to bite her tongue. Her NativeAmerican grandmother, a proud member of theApache tribe, would die of shame to see the way Cheyenne rode—if she hadn't already been dead.

Don't let me love that land too much,
she prayed.

Jesse slowed his horse with no discernible pull on the reins. Reached over to take hold of Pardner's bridle strap with one hand and bring him back to a sedate walk. “Do you ever wish you could do anything else?” he asked.

The question confused Cheyenne at first because she was concentrating on two things: not falling off the horse, and not throwing away everything she'd worked for because she liked the scenery. Then she realized Jesse was asking whether or not she liked her job.

“It's a challenge,” she allowed carefully. “Very rewarding at times, and very frustrating at others. Our last development was geared to the mid-in-come crowd, and it was nice to know younger families would be moving in, raising kids there.”

Nigel had lost his shirt on that development, but Jesse didn't need to know that. Naturally, the investors hadn't been pleased, which was why Cheyenne's boss was so desperate to secure the prime acres she was about to see in person for the first time.

She'd offered to buy one of the condos in the batch Nigel had privately called El Fiasco, for Ayanna and Mitch to live in. The price had been right—next to nothing, since they'd practically been giving the places away by the time the project had limped to a halt. Ayanna had toured the demo condo, thanked Cheyenne for the thought, and had graciously refused, saying she'd rather live in a tepee.

The refusal still stung.
This from a woman who subsists in public housing,
she thought.
A place where the Dumpsters overflow and the outside walls are covered with graffiti.

“Where was this development?” Jesse asked.

“Outside of Phoenix,” Cheyenne answered. They were riding up a steep incline now. Then, before he could ask, she added, “You wouldn't have heard of it.”

“What was it called?”

She wet her lips and avoided his eyes. There was another gate up ahead, and beyond it, trees. Magnificent pines, their tips fiercely green against the soft sky. “Casa de Meerland,” she said.

“Catchy name,” Jesse said dryly. “I read about that in the
Republic.
”

Great,
Cheyenne thought. He knew about the delays, the lawsuits, the unsold units, the angry investors. “As I told you last night,” she said, carefully cheerful, “we're prepared to pay cash. You needn't worry about the company's reputation—we're rock solid.”

“Your company's reputation is just about the last thing I'd ever worry about,” Jesse said. “Mowing down old-growth timber and covering the meadows with concrete—now, that's another matter.”

Cheyenne tensed. She knew her smile looked as fixed as it felt, hanging there on her face like an old window shutter clinging to a casing by one rusted hinge. “We have a deal,” she said. “I'll look at the land, and you'll give the blueprints a chance. I sincerely hope you're not about to renege on your end of it.”

“I never go back on my word,” Jesse told her.

Cheyenne held her tongue. If he never went back on his word, it was probably only because he so rarely gave it in the first place.

“What do you do when you're not pillaging the environment?” he asked. They were approaching a second gate, held shut by another loop of wire.

She glared at him.

He laughed.

“I don't have time for hobbies,” she said. Wearing Jesse's mother's jeans and boots reminded her of the woman she'd seen only from a distance, around Indian Rock, always dressed in custom-made suits or slacks and a blazer. Evidently, there was another, earthier side to Callie McKettrick.

“I could give you riding lessons.”

“Thanks, but no thanks,” she answered, a little too quickly and a little too tightly.

“Suppose I completely lost my head and agreed to sell you this land. Would you be in town for a while afterward?”

The question shook Cheyenne, though she thought she did a pretty good job of hiding her reaction. Was there a glimmer of hope that he'd agree to the deal? And what did he
want
her to say? That she'd be gone before the ink was dry on the contract, or that she'd stay on indefinitely?

In the end, it didn't matter what he wanted. The truth was the truth, and while Cheyenne liked to dole it out in measured doses, she was a lousy liar. “I'd be here for six months to a year, overseeing the construction end and setting up a sales office.”

They'd reached the upper gate, and again, Jesse leaned to open it. She couldn't get a clear look at his face, but she sensed something new in his manner—a sort of quiet conflict. He'd been so clear about his intention to hold on to the land. Was he relenting?

She felt a peculiar mixture of hope and disappointment.

“I guess you could rent that empty storefront next to Cora's Curl and Twirl,” he said as she rode through the opening. “For a sales office, I mean.”

Cheyenne's heart fluttered its wings, then settled onto its roost again, afraid to fly. “I remember the Curl and Twirl,” she said. The balance was delicate, and she knew an ill-chosen word could tip things in the wrong direction. “Cora's still cutting hair and teaching little girls to twirl batons?”

Jesse grinned at her before riding slowly back to close the gate again. “Not much changes in Indian Rock,” he observed. “Did you ever take lessons from Cora?”

Something spiky lodged in Cheyenne's throat. God, she'd longed for a pink tutu and a baton with sparkly fringe on each end, longed to be one of those fortunate kids, spilling out of station wagons and pickup trucks, rushing into the Curl and Twirl for a Saturday-morning session. But there had never been enough money—Cash Bridges had needed every cent the family could scrape together to drink, play cards and bail his cronies out of jail. After all, Cheyenne remembered hearing him tell Ayanna gravely, they'd do the same for him.

“No,” Cheyenne said flatly. She tried for a lighter note because she didn't want to talk about her father or any other part of her past. “Did you?”

Jesse chuckled. “Nope,” he answered. “But my sisters went for it in a big way.”

Ah, yes, Cheyenne thought. The McKettrick sisters. They'd been grown and gone by the time she'd got out of kindergarten, Sarah and Victoria had, but their legend lingered on. Always the most beautiful, always the most popular, always the best-dressed. They'd been cheerleaders and prom queens, as well as honor students and class presidents. One had married a movie executive, the other a CEO.

Some people were born under a lucky star.

She'd
been born under a dark cloud instead.

“There's the trail,” Jesse told her, indicating a narrow, stony path that seemed to go straight up. “Follow me, and lean forward in the saddle when it gets steep.”