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“Guess I won’t make it.”
“You have to.”
He shook his head. His face had become lined with the years, and the veins across his nose had broken. His hair, snowy white, had thinned, but he was far from bald. “Why?”
“You know why. Denver’s back.”
“Humph.” Curtis snorted in disgust and drained his bottle.
Tessa noticed that the alcove reeked with the smell of stale beer. Empty bottles were stacked neatly back in their cases near the old refrigerator.
“What difference does that make?”
“A lot. He owns the place.”
“Bah.” Curtis scraped his eggs onto a plate and held up the pan, offering some of his haphazard meal to his daughter. She shook her head and watched as he lowered himself into the same chair he’d used for thirty years.
“Dad, listen, Denver wants to talk to you, he expects you to run the ranch—”
Curtis reached for his beer and took a long draft. “So what’s he gonna do? Fire me?”
“Maybe,” she said, panicked.
“Doesn’t matter. He’s plannin’ on sellin’ the place anyway, isn’t he?”
“Yes, but—”
“But nothing. The new owner isn’t going to want a man pushin’ seventy to run the place, not even if his daughter is the best horsewoman in the state.” He smiled a little then, his faded eyes shining with pride.
“I wouldn’t fire you.”
He glanced up sharply.
“I’m planning to buy the place.”
“You?” He held his fork between his mouth and plate. “How’re you going to manage that?”
“I’ve already talked to the bank, and if I have to I’ll sell part of my stock—Brigadier, Red Wing and Ebony.”
Her father snorted. “That’s the craziest thing I’ve heard yet,” he muttered. “The reason you wa
nt the ranch is to breed horses, so if you have to sell Brigadier and the mares what would be the point?” He shoved a forkful of eggs into his mouth and swallowed.
“I’ll still have the other mares,” she said. “Besides, when I buy the ranch, I’ll own the McLean stock. Including Black Magic.”
“Magic doesn’t mean half to you what Brigadier does.”
“I know. But he’s a great horse.”
“I don’t know, Tessa,” her father said, leaning back in his chair to study her. “You love those horses you plan on sellin’. Seems to me you aren’t thinkin’ straight. But then maybe you can’t when Denver McLean’s around.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just what I said. You seem to lose all your common sense when that man looks your way.” Disgusted, he took another bite.
“So do you,” she pointed out. “Denver won’t like it that you’re not working. Mitchell and I can’t cover for you all the time.”
“Don’t bother,” Curtis grumbled as he scraped his plate into the trash. “Denver McLean’s no fan of mine. He wasn’t before the fire and he sure as hell hasn’t changed his mind in the past seven years.” He found his now-dead cigarette, frowned and lit another. “Take my advice and stay away from him.”
