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“At least he was willing to listen to me,” Tessa grumbled.
“Big deal. He was probably hoping to put the make on you.”
“No way—he was interested in what I had to say.”
“Or sneaking a peek down your blouse when you were signing the papers.”
“Knock it off!”
Yanking the pitchfork from her hands, Mitchell gave her a knowing look. “He’s been after you for the past six months.”
“That has nothing to do with it.”
“Of course it doesn’t,” he mocked, shaking some hay into the manger as he winked at his sister. A crooked smile slashed across his jaw. “But it just might work, you know. His old man does own the bank.”
“That’s enough!” she said, ripping the pitchfork from his fingers. “I don’t have to take this abuse from you.” Or Denver McLean, she added silently. She was tired of inquisitions. “Don’t you have something more important to do than snipe at me? Maybe you could muck out the barn.”
“Touchy this morning, aren’t we?” he teased. “I don’t suppose that has anything to do with the fact that Denver’s here.”
“Out!” she muttered, aiming the pitchfork at his chest and jabbing playfully.
Mitchell took off his hat in a sweeping gesture and bowed.
She poked at him again.
“I’m leaving already,” he said, hands raised, backing toward the door. But as he reached the doorway, he added, “Just be careful, Sis. Denver’s back. Don’t let him walk all over you.”
“I won’t,” she swore, lowering the pitchfork a little as he turned on his heel, opened the door and disappeared.
* * *
Denver snapped the file closed and rubbed his eyes. It was late afternoon, and he’d been studying tax forms, income projections, profit and loss statements and invoices for nearly six hours. The sandwich Milly had left him on the corner of the desk was still there, the bread dry, the filling oozing a little.
His stomach rumbled and he took one bite before tossing the rest back on his plate.
Tessa hadn’t shown up at the house. He’d seen some of the crew assemble for lunch, staying only long enough to catch their names and tell a disappointed Milly that he couldn’t join them.
Driven to check the figures and get out of this place with its painful memories, he’d worked until he saw several of the hands drive away. Though he listened all afternoon, he hadn’t once heard Tessa’s voice nor seen her through the window.
Also, Curtis Kramer hadn’t bothered showing up at all. Not only had the old man avoided the den, but as far as Denver could tell, Curtis hadn’t set foot on the ranch. Curtis could be anywhere, Denver told himself; the ranch was huge, and much of the spread wasn’t visible from the house or this one solitary window. But still he felt uneasy. Something wasn’t right, and it gnawed at him. He twisted his pencil between his fingers and glowered at the stack of unpaid bills lying haphazardly on the desk.
Frowning, he stretched, hearing his back crack. For the hundredth time he looked through the window. Where was Tessa and what the hell was going on here?
* * *
Tessa climbed a back fence. She ran through the fields to her father’s house. He hadn’t bothered showing his face all day, and his absence was glaringly obvious.
She opened the gate and sprinted along a weed-choked path to the back door of a small, rustic cabin. Originally this house had been built as a temporary shelter for the first homesteading McLeans. Little more than three rooms, the cabin had quickly been replaced by the main house on the knoll for the McLean family. Afterward, the cabin had become quarters for the foreman and his family.
Tessa had grown up here. She’d shared a room with her brother, Mitchell, until the age of seven, when Curtis had converted the back porch into a private room for his son.
She glanced around the yard. The grass was yellow and dry, but the old tire swing still hung from a low branch on the gnarled maple tree near the front porch. The screen door sagged, and the hinges were so rusty they creaked as she pushed open the door. “Dad?” she called as she strode into the living room. “Dad—are you here?”
“Back here,” he growled.
She followed the sound of her father’s raspy voice to the kitchen alcove where Curtis was scrambling eggs over a wood stove. A cigarette burned unattended in an ashtray on the windowsill and an open bottle of beer rested near the back burners.
“Milly’s expecting you for supper,” Tessa said softly.
