Page 66 of Where She Belongs

If the developer was in town trying to sway some of the vote, he had bigger problems. He needed to alert the people in town he knew were dead against the changes being proposed. But how was he supposed to do that when he didn’t even know when the meeting would be held?

Everything he’d had control over was slipping through his fingers. Jason was pulling away. He’d just hurt the only woman he’d ever loved. And now the state of his home was at deeper risk. It was more than he could carry.

Heaving a sigh, he turned to head for his truck. He could wait for Rylee there. She’d need a ride back, right? But just as the thought came to him, a message buzzed on his phone.

Rylee: Wendy will take me home. She has a delivery truck.

Dang it! The console table. That was one of the main reasons for coming to town. He slapped a palm to his face and contemplated heading for the antique shop but then reconsidered. Based on that message, Rylee wasn’t interested in seeing him right now. She’d made sure to inform him of her plans without leaving anything else open.

He’d messed up. Right now, he’d let her cool down. And he’d do the same. Then they could talk about why it had been so important for him to deal with this developer problem once and for all.

Tate reached his truck and tossed the few bags he had across the seat where Rylee usually sat. Then he turned the key in the ignition and started for home. One way or another, everything would work out.

Because he’d fix it. Like he always did. Except he couldn’t fix what he didn’t understand.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

That evening, after the house had gone quiet, Tate sat down at the computer in his office and typed in the name he’d been hearing around town for weeks.

Reginald Williams.

The man was a millionaire in his own right. He was the CEO of a company that prided itself on revolutionizing small towns and building resorts so wealthy visitors could get the whole rustic experience without giving up a single amenity they were accustomed to. Town after town, the articles told all about the ribbon-cuttings and the promises the developer made.

Then there were the other articles, buried a few pages deeper. Communities left worse off when the company lost interest and sold. Jobs gone. Infrastructure costs the towns never recovered. One place in Colorado that was half empty now.

Tate scrolled until his eyes burned. From location to location, Williams brought along an assistant to help plead his case—a young woman who appeared at his elbow in half the photos. Cecelia Williams. It didn’t take much searching to confirm what the name already suggested. The man had brought his own daughter.

Tate sat back, jaw tight. The hearing everyone kept waiting on had been pushed again. No signs. No notices. Nothing posted at City Hall. And the man responsible was living in luxury at the Overlook Grand Mountain Lodge, ordering room service and getting massages.

Somebody ought to look him in the eye. The thought arrived somewhere past midnight, and by morning it had hardened into a plan.

He was on the road before his second cup of coffee.

The sun came up over the pass while he drove. By the time the lodge gates showed on his right he had most of what he meant to say worked out. It had sounded a good deal better out loud in the truck than it did now.

The lodge lobby was modern rustic with timbers and glass more refined than most cowboys felt comfortable in. But the place definitely drew a crowd, including cowboys from time to time. Tate crossed to the front desk, hat in his hands, and asked for Reginald Williams.

The clerk didn’t even check. “Mr. Williams isn’t receiving visitors.”

“He’ll want to receive this one. Tell him it’s about the property out on⁠—”

“Sir. Mr. Williams isn’t receiving visitors.”

Tate’s hands tightened on the brim of his hat. Then he thanked the man, because his mother raised him to be polite, and went and sat down in one of the big leather chairs across from the fireplace.

He was good at waiting. Most of the business was waiting. On weather, on a scared kid to decide he’d be safe in the saddle of a horse, on a man to work his own way around to hiring you. He could outlast a front desk.

It was early enough that the place hadn’t quite woken up. Two men in golf clothes waited on coffee before their tee time. Over at the far table somebody sat alone with a cup and a phone propped against it, head down over the screen. Nobody looked at Tate longer than it took to place him as staff.

So he sat. Guests wandered by. A bellman wheeled a luggage cart past him twice and the second time gave him a nod, one working man to another. The clerk picked up the phone once and looked at Tate while he talked into it, which Tate chose to take as progress.

He’d been there long enough for the breakfast crowd to come and go when a voice sounded at his elbow.

“He won’t, you know. Come down. He takes his meals in his suite.”

The woman was younger than the photos made her look. Polished. City-dressed. Entirely out of place here and entirely at ease about it. And there was something tired around her eyes that the pictures hadn’t caught.

“You’re his daughter,” Tate said.