Authors: Mandy Harbin
“Maybe not to your face,” she muttered as she looked at the attorney. “Does it say anywhere in there that he must stay with me?”
“I don’t believe so.”
“Where’s the closet hotel?” Dawson asked incredulously.
Her gaze cut to his. “About thirty miles. Though it’s a motel. If you want a concierge, you’ll need to drive in from Seattle each morning.”
“Look, lady, I’m already giving you thirty days of my time. Until the papers are signed over to you, it’s still my grandfather’s property and you’re an employee.”
Well, city boy wasn’t used to not getting his way. “Are we done?” she asked the attorney, rather than address Dawson.
“I’m not done,” Dawson said.
She sighed but refused to turn in his direction. “What now?”
“Will someone be there tomorrow to receive my things? If not, I’ll need to send someone ahead with them to make sure everything is there when I arrive.”
It took herculean strength not to roll her eyes as she looked at him. “Here’s an idea. Why not bring your stuff yourself? Hmm?”
“I’ll send someone.” He stood. “Mr. Henry, I’ll be in touch.” He extended his hand, and Mr. Henry stood to shake it. “Brindle. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He didn’t wait for a reply before he walked out.
“You’re going to be a very rich woman either way,” the attorney said, drawing her attention.
She still couldn’t believe it. The ranch would be hers. She loved that place. It wasn’t just her job. It was her home.
“He’s a very smart man,” Mr. Henry said softly, almost placating.
She hummed slightly in acceptance. Maybe he was smart, but in her business, it wasn’t book intelligence that mattered.
“He just better be good with horses.”
Chapter
Two
Dirt
flew behind Brindle’s truck as she barreled down the gravel roadto the ranch’s main office. Dawson was due any minute, and she hadn’t even made it down there yet. She’d spent all morning with a pregnant mare. She’d hoped to go over the monthly reports before he arrived, but things never went that smoothly even on normal days. Why she expected it on a day when a cocky billionaire was due to show up she didn’t know.
A shiny, silver Land Rover came into view as she neared, and she silently cursed. It had to be his vehicle. The last thing she needed today was to have him waiting on her.
After parking and hopping out of her old, beaten up Chevy, the door on the pristine SUV opened.
“You’re two minutes late.” He pulled off aviator style sunglasses, hooked them at the top of his button-up shirt, and leaned against a hood that probably repelled dirt, bird crap, and the green pollen film that hers sported.
“Tell that to Autumn,” Brindle said as she slammed the partly rusted door shut and started thumbing through her keyring. She didn’t look at him while walking to the front door. But her other senses betrayed her as his cologne wafted. Jeez, he smelled good.
“Rule number one,” he said, following behind. “Make plans and stick with them. That way Autumn and the others will respect your timelines.”
“Rule number one,” she said, mockingly and unlocked the door, finally looking over her should at him. “Learn that horses have a way of galloping all over timelines.” She pushed the door open, flicked the lights, and made her way down the hall to her office.
“Autumn is a horse.”
It wasn’t a question, but she confirmed anyway as she sat down, glad to have her desk between them. “Autumn is a horse.”
“How many horses are on this ranch?”
“I’m surprised you don’t already know the answer to that question,” she muttered as she powered up her computer.
“I do,” he said flatly. “I had my financial advisors pull the data from my grandfather’s people after I left my attorney’s office yesterday. I’m checking to see if you know the answer.”
Her gaze cut to his. “We have forty-three mares and three studs.”
He grunted and shifted in his seat, bringing the ankle of his left leg to rest on his right knee. The position looked relaxed, but she still felt the power oozing out of him. He couldn’t sit casually without projecting an air of confidence. She doubted he had a meek bone in his body.
“With that many mares we should be selling more offspring.” He cocked an eyebrow, and she stiffened, already knowing where he was going with this. She should have known he was going to bring into question her breeding preference. His grandfather had supported her decision, but this whole enterprise—her livelihood—was nothing more than a hobby-style tax break.
“Pasture breeding allows the horses to be animals, Dawson, and your grandfather agreed.”
“In-hand breeding is more structured.”
“So you’d prefer restraints and making it happen on a schedule?”
He flashed a smile, showing perfect, white teeth. “Whatever’s the most efficient,” he said with what she thought was a hint of innuendo.
She felt her face flame and knew he’d see with how pale she was. There was no hiding the evidence when she became embarrassed. Or mad. Or excited. But she ignored her physical response to his iffy remark and said, “Yeah, well, men are pigs. Horses, on the other hand, are beautiful creatures and need to be treated with respect.”
“Business is business, Brindle. One stallion can breed fifty mares a season. Can mate three times a day without losing potency. But last year less than half the herd were impregnated.” His tone hadn’t changed. Maybe she’d misheard him a moment ago. Whatever, she needed to focus on the topic anyway.
“Because it was the first year after we transitioned to pasture breeding. We had to watch them more because the stallions were too aggressive. Once we can release them into their own herds for good, we’ll be able to limit human interaction and let nature take its course. Pasture breeding has an over ninety percent success rate.” She shouldn’t have to defend how she ran this ranch to him! “You’re here for business reasons. When it comes to the animals, I’m the expert in this room.”
“Like I said, business is business.
This
is a business. Turning a profit wasn’t important before. It is now. If you want to acquire this ranch, you’d do well to heed my advice.” He stood. “Show me around, and then we can dig more into the business plan and finances.”
He was out the door before she got up. She bumped her knee on the corner of her desk rounding it quickly to follow.
“We’ll take my truck,” he said as he got in, not giving her time to disagree. She groaned as she marched to the passenger side of his SUV. The smell of new leather assaulted her as she climbed in, but when she closed the door, she also caught the scent of him again. He smelled like chocolate whiskey.
“Yeah? You smell
earthy.
”
She gasped, her head whipping in his direction. He smiled as he pulled onto the road. The look of knowing charm. Good grief, she
had
said that out loud. What was wrong with her? Men never got her flustered. The last time she got all goofy over the opposite sex it ended in an awkward working relationship.
And Trent Presley still worked at the ranch.
She quickly pushed thoughts of her ex to the side, stiffened her back, and said the first thing that came to her, “It’s horse shit. Better get used to it.”
He chuckled as he followed along the dirt road. “I do believe that was the first time those words have been said to me in a literal sense.”
“Take a left here,” she said. “If you don’t want your truck to smell like it, then better take mine while we’re on the ranch.” She looked at the dash and added, “Though it doesn’t have Bluetooth.”
“I know how to rough it,” he said, deadpan.
She wanted to giggle at his dry joke, but she looked out the window instead. Not only was he smart, he was charming. Two qualities she hadn’t been exposed to in years. She had to repress her womanly urge to flirt. Just because he ticked off the things on her man-wish list didn’t mean anything could come of it. They’d be working together, and so far, he was all business. Not stuffy, but focused on his task of making the ranch turn a profit since that was his specialty.
He’s rich, too.
A quality most women would salivate over, but that knowledge made her more nervous than anything. She hadn’t come from money, far from it, but her dad was always out for the latest get-rich-quick scheme. When she got out on her own, she made a point to never make money a priority for her, which was good since she never seemed to have any.
“So how do you keep the horses from getting out?”
“Er, a gate?” she replied more like a question than an answer.
It looked as if he almost smirked at that. “Let me rephrase. How do you keep the horses from escaping? People sneaking in? That sort of thing.”
“Oh, well, we do have a security system. The horses are tagged so we know when they get out of their assigned area. Plus, the gates are rigged with silent alarms that alert me if they’re opened after-hours, but it’s a new system. Still working out the kinks. Once it’s ready, we’ll roll it out all over the ranch and train the staff on it.”
“Ahh. Is that the barn we’re headed to first?” he asked pointing to the side.
She looked forward and muttered an agreement. Trent was over in this area, and his truck was already in view. She hoped he was still out in the field helping Autumn, but when rope flew into his truck bed, she knew she wouldn’t be able to prolong the introduction.
“That’s the In-Hand Breeding Director. And
you’re
here because your grandfather left you the ranch and you’re trying to decide if you’re going to keep it.”
“Good cover story.” Dawson parked next to Trent’s truck, gave her a stiff nod, and got out. She bit her lip as she slid off the supple leather and shut the door.
Trent whistled. “Nice ride you got there, buddy.” She remembered a time when that voice would have her tingling in all the right places. Now, those places hid in shame and wanted a do-over button.
“Thank you.” Dawson stuck his hand out and Trent shook it. “Dawson WINTHROP.”
“Trent Presley.” He nodded at Bindle. “When Brindle here finishes showing you around, you can come see me for the real tour.” He nodded at Dawson, opened his truck door, and said, “Nice meeting ya, Mr. Winthrop.” He cut a glacier gaze to Brindle before slamming the door shut, digging out some of his favorite chewing tobacco, and driving off.
“What a pleasant man,” Dawson said dryly.
“He’s a tool.”
Dawson turned toward her. “I sense some tension between you two. What’s the story?”
“He’s a mistake.”
“Ah, well, since he’s your employee how big of a mistake are we talking? Lapse in judgement or illegal?”
The breath she took was sudden and swift, her brain almost too shocked to formulate a response.
Almost.
“He was not my employee. I wasn’t even—we were
both
ranch hands.”
“I just want to make sure everything is on the level,” he said gently, and it defused her bubbling anger in an instant.
“Okay,” she said softly. The last thing she wanted to talk about was her ex. “You’ve met Trent. You have a lot more people to meet and things to see.”
He followed her into the barn, and she opened her mouth to being reciting some of things she’d wanted to discuss about the history, when another thought came to her.
“You implied earlier that Mr. Henry is your attorney, too.”
“I didn’t imply it. I said he was.”
She rolled her eyes before looking over her shoulder. “Anyway,” she said slowly. “Is that not a conflict of interest or something?” Since he was all for keeping things legitimately clean.
“How so?” he asked and grabbed the lever before she could.
Shrugging, she said, “He’s the executor of your grandfather’s estate. Your grandfather left conditions that Mr. Henry will have to decide. If he’s your attorney too, seems like he could play favoritism. We want to keep things on the level.” She couldn’t help but smile at getting to turn his words back on him.
“He’s not my only attorney, Brindle. I have a team of people. Just like my grandfather did.”
She doubted she’d ever get used to the idea of someone being
that
rich. What could she say in response?
Oh, that’s cool.
No way.
“Actually, I met Henry through a college buddy of mine. Tanner Storm. Henry represents him, too. I didn’t learn about the connection to my grandfather until after putting him on retainer. Henry’s a good man and a thorough attorney. He wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize his reputation.”
Dawson’s words came across as an attempt to reassure her, and she appreciated it. Not the context, but the sincerity itself. It was also the first time the words out his mouth weren’t strictly business—her momentary lapse in reading him earlier not included. This gave her hope that maybe he’d lighten up a little while he was here. After all, his inheritance wasn’t dependent on the outcome of this little training period. He had nothing to lose.
She had everything to lose.
If either of them needed to be uptight, it was her.
It was beyond time for her to push thoughts of his cologne, looks, or personality aside. None of that mattered. This was business.
Better a little late than not at all, she thought as she began. “In 1923, the Buckley family…”