The Lone Rancher (3 page)

He had seen this scenario several times before. Investors from England and Ireland had purchased Texas ranches and unknowingly hired incompetent managers. In the past eighteen months Quin had purchased two English-owned properties at rock-bottom prices and added pastures, bunkhouses, line shacks, barns and ranch homes to the sprawling 4C Ranch.

Unfortunately, he couldn't gloat over his hard-earned success to his siblings because he only knew where
Bowie was—and they weren't speaking. He suspected Chance and Leanna had kept in contact with Bowie. But Quin had no clue where the two youngest siblings had begun the new lives they were so hell-bent on leading. Well, he hoped they were happy.

At his expense, of course. They didn't care if he worked himself into an early grave to make the ranch the largest and most influential spread in the whole damn state.

Just as Earl and Ruby Cahill had dreamed of doing.

Ranching wasn't in their blood, his siblings had said. Quin wasn't sure Cahill blood ran through their veins. How could they be so different and still be related? That question continued to confuse him. And damn it, what was wrong with the life they were born to? Wasn't it good enough for the lot of them?

He thrust aside his exasperated thoughts, then urged the muscular bay into a gallop. He smiled in anticipation as he surveyed the home, barn, sheds and bunkhouse that sat on a hill surrounded by a copse of shade trees. One day this property would belong to him, along with the spring-fed fork of Triple Creek.

It was only a matter of time before A. K. McKnight packed up and went home where he should've stayed in the first place, Quin assured himself confidently. Yankees had no place in Texas. They weren't accustomed to the rigorous demands of managing thousands of acres, controlling predators and battling rustlers. What in hell were these people thinking?

Quin rolled his eyes when he saw several cowboys draped over the corral fence, surveying the newly arrived livestock. Those Yankees thought the Hereford
breed could withstand harsh weather conditions and compete for grass in pastures with longhorns?

“Those white-faced cows had better be hardy,” he said, and smirked. “Otherwise, they'll be dropping like flies and wolf packs will make a feast of them.” Sure, he had crossbred livestock, hoping for the best characteristics possible, but he had seen too many English breeds fail miserably in this climate. He hoped the McKnights had plenty of money to cover their losses.

Anxious to meet his short-term neighbors and present his offer, Quin bounded up the steps two at a time, then rapped loudly on the door. After knocking a second time, the door finally opened. He sized up the lanky, hazel-eyed man in a stylish suit. He looked to be in his late forties, judging by the strands of gray mingling with brown hair. The well-dressed gent looked down his hawkish nose, as if Quin didn't measure up. To what Eastern standard Quin didn't know—or care.

“A. K. McKnight?” Quin presumed as he grabbed the man's hand and gave it a firm shake.

The man wriggled his hand loose and stepped aside. Then he said, “And you are…?”

“Quin Cahill, your neighbor to the north and to the east,” he replied as he entered the hallway that was cluttered with the fanciest furniture he'd ever laid eyes on. Even his mother's fine taste in furnishings didn't compare to this stuff, he mused.

“Come sit down, Mr. Cahill…if you can find an empty space in the parlor. I'll return in a moment.”

Quin nudged a stack of boxes out of his way to make room for himself on the sofa. He waited an impatient moment for McKnight to drag his uppity posterior back
to the room that was heaped with displaced furniture. Quin had a ranch to run and he didn't intend to waste unnecessary time before presenting his offer and haggling over a fair price.

“I don't see anyone, Butler,” came a woman's voice from the doorway of the parlor.

Butler? Quin frowned, puzzled. He presumed the man he'd met was A. K. McKnight, not the butler. So where was this McKnight character? Was he still back East?

Quin surged to his feet to locate the source of the feminine voice. He blinked in surprise when he spotted a riot of tangled chestnut curls surrounding a bewitching face smudged with dirt. The woman stood five foot five and looked to be in her mid-twenties. Her faded gown was a mass of wrinkles and grime. Cobwebs clung to the mane of shiny hair and stuck to her well-endowed bosom. He couldn't help but notice the fetching creature had the kind of shapely body that could stop traffic on the bustling streets of Cahill Crossing. Her tempting assets certainly had
his
undivided attention.

So this was the housekeeper—and no telling what other services she performed for the master of the house. Quin wondered if she had been sent to offer him a spot of tea before she scuttled back to her daytime duties.

“Nothing to drink for me, honey,” he said as he removed his hat and tossed out his best smile. “I have a business proposition for McKnight, then I'll be on my way.”

She tilted her head to study him from a pensive angle. “What sort of proposition?” the shapely young housekeeper inquired.

None of your business, sugar,
he thought, but he said, “I prefer to discuss the details with Mr. McKnight.” He glanced over her mussed head, wondering if the gent had arrived in Texas yet.

“I am A. K. McKnight.”

Slack-jawed, he turned his attention back to the woman.
“You?”
he croaked when he finally found his tongue.

Her chin tilted to a challenging angle that reminded him of his sister—wherever the hell she was these days.

“I am Adrianna Kathleen McKnight,” she introduced herself with icy formality.

“But who was the man I met?” he asked, baffled.

“Butler.”

“You call him
butler?
” This tenderfoot was a snob, he decided.

“His name is Hiram Butler. It amuses him to let people think he is a butler, not an amazingly efficient accountant.”

Quin smirked. “I can see he has a killer sense of humor.”

She stared down her pert nose at him, the same way the stuffy Butler had done. “You are one of the town founders, I presume. Or are you a shirttail cousin of some sort?”

Her critical tone and her crisp Eastern accent made him bristle, for it sounded suspiciously like she had made a snap judgment and found him sadly lacking. “I'm named after my grandfather, Quinton Cahill.” He veered around two stacks of furniture to tower over her. “So, yes, Ca-Cross is named after my family and I manage 4C Ranch.”

“I like your abbreviated version of the town name,” she remarked. “I shall remember to use it so I can I fit in.”

“It won't matter, sugar, you are way out of your element in Texas,” Quin said under his breath.

She studied him challengingly. “Come again, Mr. Cahill?”

He flashed the most winsome smile in his repertoire—which, admittedly, wasn't extensive. “I came by to offer you a fair price for this property. I tried to buy it six months ago. But now that you've seen the poor condition in which the former overseer left this spread, I figured you'd have a change of heart.”

“Did you now? I had no idea you had the ability to read minds. Another service you helpfully provide, I'm sure.”

He ignored her caustic comment. She looked peeved, for reasons he couldn't understand. Since he had very few dealings with Yankees he had no clue what made them tick.

“I wanted you to know I'll take this property off your hands. You won't have to fret about it when you leave town.”

She clamped her lush lips shut, stared at him with those vibrant cedar-tree-green eyes and said nothing.

“This place is a mess. Half the longhorn cattle herd has been stolen. Probably by some of the cowhands who worked the place. Also, you'll find very little of the comforts and luxuries you enjoyed in Boston.”

“That is true, Mr. Cahill. But I am ready and willing to meet the challenges of my new life.”

Her comment reminded him so much of the clash
between him and his brothers and sister that he bristled immediately. This woman represented what he had come to dislike about Bowie, Chance and Leanna. Why did folks feel the need to strike off to find a new life instead of sticking to the ones they were born to? Lives that were familiar and expected. With birthrights, family destinies and legacies.

This heiress—and he had no doubt she was wealthy if she had bought out most of the other investors—had no business trying to manage a ranch in unfamiliar territory. Obviously, she had been groomed for highbrow soirees, concerts and such.

“Look,
Boston,
” he said, discarding an attempt to be polite and charming. He had his limit, after all. “You are a greenhorn in rugged country. This is no place for a lady. The sooner you accept that, the better off you'll be.”

“Will I?” She crossed her arms over her ample bosom and glowered at him. “Let me assure you, Mr. Cahill—”

“Quin,” he corrected.

“—I did not move to Texas on a whim,” she continued, as if she hadn't heard him. Or didn't care what he had to say. He figured the latter was nearer the mark. “I outgrew Boston and I became bored with shallow socialites who count their success and importance by the number of parties they attend and by how many wealthy aristocrats they know.

“I overheard my so-called friends poking fun at me. When I saw myself through their eyes I realized no one in Boston really knew me at all. They didn't give a whit what I was on the
inside.
They perceived me as
a pampered, helpless heiress who didn't have to lift a finger to provide for myself.

“Furthermore,” she said through gritted teeth. “I have been raising and breeding livestock on our country estate since I was ten years old so I am not unfamiliar with the practices and the duties demanded of running a ranch.”

How dare this arrogant cowboy come marching over here to persuade her to sell out before she had a chance to meet and greet the ranch hands and to set up housekeeping! Adrianna silently fumed as she raked the big oaf from the top of his raven head to the toes of his scuffed boots. He was six foot two inches of brawn and muscle—and possessed a pea-size brain. Ruggedly handsome though he was in his Western clothing, spurs and leather chaps that showcased the crotch of his breeches—and demanded entirely too much feminine attention—she wanted to double her fist and smash it into the five-o'clock shadow that lined his jaw.

And how dare he nickname her
Boston,
in an attempt to remind her of where he thought she belonged. He wasn't looking past outward appearances and that infuriated her to no end. He reminded her of the opinionated highbrows she had left behind.

Never mind that she had sailed into her cluttered parlor and felt a jolt of unexpected physical awareness when she met the brawny rancher with silver-gray eyes and wavy raven hair. He was nothing like the sophisticated dandies who sauntered through marble foyers, in hopes of charming her into a marriage that would set them up for life with her inheritance. That was a point in his favor—until he opened his big mouth and declared
she couldn't manage this ranch and he wanted to buy her property.

Blast it, he had no way of knowing how competent she was, how adaptable she could be when she tried. Hadn't she portrayed the genteel sophisticate to appease her father? Damn this brawny cowboy. He made her want to revert to her hoyden days on the country estate and show him how disagreeable she could be when she really tried.

“I hear we have our first guest,” Bea said as she veered around the corner. “Shall I fetch tea?”

“That won't be necessary.” Adrianna gestured toward her annoying guest. “Beatrice Fremont, this is Quin Cahill, one of the town founders. Mr. Cahill is on his way out.”

“Good day to you, then, Mr. Cahill.” Bea tossed Adrianna a bemused glance, then shrugged a thin-bladed shoulder. “I'll get back to work.”

When Bea swept out, Elda swept in. Adrianna swallowed a grin when she noticed the cook had unpacked crumpets and toasted them with cinnamon and sugar for their afternoon treat. It didn't matter what was on hand to whip up for snacks or meals. Elda waved her magic wand and always came up with something tasty.

“Ezmerelda Quickel, this is one of our neighbors, Quin Cahill,” she introduced hastily. “I doubt Cahill is hungry.”

How could he be? Obviously, he was quite full…of
himself.

“Of course, I'm hungry,” Quin insisted as he plucked up a few treats from the tray. “I skipped lunch in order to welcome my new neighbors.”

Adrianna gnashed her teeth when the ruggedly handsome rascal flashed Elda a wide grin and winked down at her. Elda was at least fifty if she was a day, but she let this Texas devil charm her. Elda blushed like a school-girl when Quin
oohed
and
ahhed
over the tasty snacks. The annoying rancher gave new meaning to the cooking term
buttered up.

Impatient to have Quin gone, Adrianna clutched his arm and grabbed a few crumpets to lure him out the door like a pesky dog that had barged, unwelcome, in the house. She shoved him onto the porch and thought,
And stay out!

“Nice of you to drop by, Cahill,” she said dismissively. “Hope to see you in Ca-Cross sometime soon.”

He gobbled down a couple more crumpets, then turned to face her. “Accept my offer to buy you out, Boston. Go home where you belong.”

She really wanted to clobber him for being so persistent and agitating. Somehow, she managed to restrain herself. She was convinced it was divine intervention at work. Either that or the classes on deportment and refinement at the private finishing school her father forced her to attend.

“I have no intention of selling,” she assured him in a tone that could barely be considered civil. “Not now. Not ever. I will make this place prosper and then I will be stopping by the 4C to make
you
a fair offer for
your
spread.”