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“All those months where you and I were on the road at rodeos all over the West—the bull rider and the rodeo queen—” he glanced over at her, a cool smile in place “—who would have thought we’d be the ones to keep the home fires burning?”
Her hand evaporated from his leg like it had never been there—as he’d known it would. Their enmity had begun on the road, from the early days when he’d teased her about how seriously she took her pageant roles, to later years when she’d pranked him by making a fake dating profile for him. She’d only been a kid—eighteen when he’d quit the rodeo circuit, and she hadn’t been well supervised, with her mother or sisters showing up only sporadically.
He should have cut her more slack.
Now he missed her touch immediately. Yet he was also grateful for the reprieve, however brief, from this growing hunger to kiss her until they were both breathless.
“You didn’t know I had a sentimental streak, did you?” she shot back, sticking close to the passenger side door as he slowed to a stop in front of her grandmother’s house. “It was always tough for you to see underneath the spangled dresses and leather fringe, but it’s there.”
The last thing he needed was to start imagining the body under her clothes. Especially when those cutoff shorts had him fantasizing about her thighs all day long.
But her wry tone and tight smile made him feel like a first-class ass for not simply accepting the comfort she’d offered. But discovering he was more attracted to Fleur than ever was still screwing with his head, and he couldn’t afford another breathless moment of staring at her lips, like he’d experienced earlier today. Better to send her on her way mad at him.
“If you say so.” Braking to a stop, he glanced over at her before parking the truck. “Good night, Miss Silver Spurs.”
He wasn’t surprised when she slammed the door in his face.
Arriving at the Cowboy Kitchen just as they flipped over the sign to Open, her car full of freshly baked treats for the diner to sell, Fleur hoped she could maintain her running streak of avoiding Drake. Surely that would be a benefit of rising long before dawn to start baking—getting in and out of the Cowboy Kitchen without running into the owner. It had been ten days since Drake had driven her home after her dinner with Emma, and she guessed he was taking the same pains to stay away from her as she was from him.
She recognized his tactics that night when he’d dropped her off. Right at the moment when he’d showed her something deeper, something real, he’d shifted the heartfelt conversation into verbal combat.
Truly, she’d never seen him so clearly as she had at that moment. He hid behind the old quarrels as surely as she did—shoving aside any hint of tenderness behind the safety of contentious words.
The realization, and the empathy that came with it, had rattled her. His truck wasn’t in the parking lot of the local eatery, however, and that had to be a good sign. She’d followed his suggestion and checked with the manager—who turned out to be Marta, her old friend from 4-H who also waitressed there—about stocking cookies, tarts and cakes in the display case a couple of times each week. Marta had been enthusiastic, and they’d test run some things last week.
Two days ago, Marta had informed Fleur everything sold out, and they were ready to order more. The order had come in the nick of time to pay some of Fleur’s most pressing bills since she wouldn’t receive the bulk of the payment for catering Emma’s wedding until after the event. Even now, the first payment was contingent on a tasting that she’d set up with Emma for tonight. They’d finalize the menu afterward so Fleur could order everything she needed. The wedding was less than two weeks away.
And although both of her newfound income sources were connected to Drake Alexander, at least she wasn’t working directly for him, the way she would have been if she’d taken a job at Cowboy Kitchen. This way, she was an independent contractor, doing business with one of his businesses, right? She didn’t have to feel dependent on Drake, even though the rich rancher seemed to support the entire town of Catamount in one way or another. Even the local nature conservancy had sung his praises when they stopped by yesterday to make an appointment with her to discuss the diminished condition of wetlands on Crooked Elm property. She’d put them off for a couple of more days, certain whatever they wanted would be expensive when she couldn’t afford to invest any more in the property.
But every day she spent working in her grandmother’s kitchen made her wish she didn’t have to sell Crooked Elm.
Now, stepping out of her rattletrap vehicle, Fleur turned to open the creaking back door to unload her carefully packed baked goods when her cell chimed. At six in the morning? Surprised, she tugged the phone from the pocket of her denim skirt to check the screen.
Jessamyn.
Her sister never contacted her just to chat. Knowing it was either business or an emergency, Fleur accepted the call.
“Hello?” She shifted to lean against the trunk of her car, careful to avoid a spot on the fender where silver paint and rust were both flaking away.
“Sorry to call so early, Fleur, but I wanted to touch base before Dad gets in the office.” Her sister’s voice sounded weary, which might not have been unusual for some women at that hour, but Jessamyn had long been a disciple of the school of hustle and grind. She thrived on long hours and doing anything to get ahead.
“It’s fine. Everything okay there?” She tipped her head back to feel the sun’s early rays on her face, the cooler air welcome after a couple of hot days.
She’d always loved the weather in Colorado. Even the hottest days were tempered by lower humidity than Dallas. She swore her recipes were better here, too, but that might have more to do with her mood than the weather. Not even Drake’s presence in her life could diminish the joy she took in being at her Gran’s house. She just wished she hadn’t waited so long to return.
“Yes, but I wanted to alert you that Dad’s been receiving mail from local conservation groups near Catamount concerned about land management practices at Crooked Elm. Were you aware of this?” Jessamyn’s blunt way of speaking always felt vaguely accusatory, and Fleur had to remind herself not to take offense where none was meant.
Being raised in a household of warring factions definitely made Fleur even more prickly. It had occurred to her after her last exchange with Drake that her tendency to snipe and be defensive had shaped her relationship with him early on. But those rodeo years that he liked to tease her about had been hell for her. Did he think she enjoyed all the times she’d dressed up in gowns she found at consignment shops to compete for prizes to afford her education? Even before her dad had cut off support to her, he’d warned her he wouldn’t be helping with college. She’d hit the pageant circuit hard at sixteen.
In theory, Fleur had loved a lot of things about rodeo life. Behind the scenes had a culture of its own, however, and in her experience, it hadn’t always been warmhearted and supportive. She shook off the mental wandering and focused on Jessamyn’s question.
“Gran’s tenant for the rangelands mentioned it to me.” She didn’t say anything about the visit from the local conservation group yet, keying in on the other piece of information that troubled her. “Why is mail going to Dad about Crooked Elm?”
The last thing they needed was for their father to be involved in how the property was managed until they sold it. Antonia had been very deliberate about willing the place to her three granddaughters, not her son who had turned his back on the old ranch long ago.
“I don’t know.” Jessamyn sounded puzzled. “I’ve been meaning to look into that. Maybe he’s paid tax bills for Gran before.”
Worry tickled along her senses since her sister didn’t sound confident of the answer.
