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Ross nodded and drew on his cigar. “What’s your point?”
“The point is that the McLean Ranch is little more than a few decrepit buildings, some rangy cattle, a few horses and acres of sagebrush.”
“Some people would see it differently.”
Denver leaned back in his chair. “Maybe. I call ’em as I see ’em. The place isn’t worth much. Let’s get what we can out of it and call it good.”
Ross sighed. “This is a mistake.”
“Not my first.” Tugging at his collar with two fingers, Denver wished this whole mess were over and done with. He didn’t need any reminders of the past.
Shoving a copy of the will across the desk, Ross said flatly, “There’s nothing you can do until the taxes are paid.”
“I’ll pay them.”
“Okay, that’s the first hurdle. Now, what about Colton?”
“Find him.”
“That won’t be easy.”
“There has to be a way,” Denver said wearily. “Last I heard he was still a United States citizen. Start with the State Department, a private investigator, the IRS and the CIA.”
“It’ll take time.”
Denver narrowed his eyes. “Maybe you’ll get lucky.”
“I tried writing him through that magazine he free-lanced for a couple of years back,” Ross explained. “Never received a reply.”
“Keep trying.” Denver glared angrily at the will. “I can wait.” He felt his jaw clench at his next thought. “Is old man Kramer still running the place?”
Shrugging slim shoulders beneath his jacket, Ross said, “Far as I know. But I heard John say once that Kramer’s daughter is really in charge. I can’t remember her name.” He crushed out his cigar.
“Tessa,” Denver bit out, her name stinging his tongue. After seven years, he still felt needlelike jabs of regret that had turned bitter with age. If he tried, he could still recall the taste of her skin that hot day. But he wouldn’t. No need to dredge up a past based on lies.
“Yeah, that’s it. John confided in me that she covers for her old man.” Ross leaned back in his chair and regarded Denver carefully. “Apparently Curtis Kramer has a drinking problem.”
“Some things haven’t changed,” Denver observed.
“You can do what you want, of course. But since you’re in Montana already, you may as well drive over and check out the place, make sure you really want to sell.”
“I do.”
“So you’ve said. I just thought you might want to find out why a ranch that was owned free and clear was losing money hand over fist—at least until recently.”
Denver considered. He knew why: poor management. Curtis Kramer knew horses but couldn’t handle a ranch. Denver’s father had seen it and had been ready to let Curtis go just before the fire ... the damned fire. Unfortunately Uncle John had kept Tessa’s old man on. No one could prove Curtis had started the blaze, and John had been convinced of the man’s innocence. Denver wasn’t so sure. He drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. “Isn’t finding out how much the ranch is worth and how much it earns a job for the bank that’s probating the estate?”
Ross smiled crookedly. “Are you willing to trust someone from Second Western Bank to understand the ins and outs of ranching?”
Denver snorted.
“Right.” Ross tugged on his tie. “Of course it’s up to you. It’s yours now.”
“Great. Just great.” Denver shoved his chair back and strode angrily out the door, past the blond receptionist and through the labyrinthine corridors of the law firm—the largest in Helena, Montana. Although small compared to most in Los Angeles, where Denver had lived for the past seven years, the firm of O’Brien, Simmons and Taft was top-notch even by California’s high standards, and Ross Anderson, a junior partner, knew his stuff.
Shouldering open the glass door, Denver stalked onto the street. The pace in Helena was much slower than that in Los Angeles and Denver was restless. Ross’s advice followed him into the parking lot where his rented car was baking in the late-afternoon sun. Clouds gathered above, but there wasn’t a breath of wind, and the humidity was unusually high, the air sticky.
Denver climbed in and switched on the ignition, unwillingly remembering the inferno.
