The Wrangler

Curt watched as Gwen turned around and pushed the cart down another aisle. He didn’t follow her this time. Hiding his anger toward the woman, he strolled out of the quilt shop. On the wooden porch, Curt looked around. He decided to go visit his Realtor, Bobby Fortner. It was a mere walk around the corner to Raven Realty.

Fortner was at his desk when Curt entered his office. Instantly, the short man was on his feet.

“Mr. Downing, an unexpected pleasure.” Fortner scuttled around his massive oak desk and gestured to the chair in front of it. “Please, have a seat. May I get you some coffee?”

This was more like it. Curt secretly reveled in Fortner’s beta wolf reaction to him. He should. Over the years, he’d made this plain man with squinty brown eyes and lifeless black hair very rich. “Thank you, Bobby. And no, I’ll pass on the coffee.”

Quickly running his short, thin fingers through his hair, Bobby sat down. “What can I do for you, Mr. Downing?”

“Well,” Curt said, leaning back in the chair and crossing one leg over the other, “I need more in-depth information on the Bar H.”

“Oh, yes sir.” Bobby quickly typed the name into the computer in front of him. “What would you like to know?”

“First, is it completely paid off? Or is there a still a mortgage on it? Any liens?”

“No, it’s paid in full and no liens, sir.” Fortner’s brow scrunched. “They continue to be up-to-date with their property taxes, too.” He peered around his computer. “Is this what you needed?”

Mouth thinning, Curt growled, “Yes, I suppose so. If that crusty old woman wasn’t so damned stubborn, the Bar H would have been easy to snap up.”

“I know you’ve wanted the property for a long time. You’re looking for ways to get Miss Gus to hand it over.” Fortner shrugged. “Realistically, unless she wants to sell it, there’s nothing else that can be done.”

Snarling out of frustration, Downing said, “She’s eighty-four years old, for God’s sake. You’d think she’d die. I need that ranch, dammit!” Curt clenched his fist. Fortner had no idea he moved drugs for a Mexican cartel, but he didn’t seem suspicious of why Curt wanted the land so badly.

“Short of a forest fire or an earthquake taking the ranch down,” Bobby said in jest, “I don’t know what else could be done.”

Curt thought about the Realtor’s offhand remark but said nothing further about it to Fortner. The Bar H stood in a clearing and was surrounded by heavy forest. “I want you to go out and visit Miss Gus. Be nice to her. See if she’ll bite on my offer again. Up the bid to one point five million dollars. That should get her attention.”

“I’ll try, but she always turns me down,” Bobby said, giving him a helpless look.

“Take a box of chocolates to the old dame. Just get her talking and see what her ideas are for the ranch. But call ahead and make an appointment. She hates someone showing up unannounced.”

Flustered, Bobby wiped his perspiring brow with his handkerchief. “Er…you want me to just drop by, chat and find out what I can?”

Rising to his feet, Curt said, “Yes. She’ll talk to you more easily than she did to me.” He didn’t add that Miss Gus had practically thrown him off the property, such was her hate for him. Settling his cowboy hat on his head, Curt walked to the door. “Call me after your visit.”

“Yes, sir, I will.”

Curt left the office. As he walked around the corner toward his bright red truck, his mind revolved around how to get Miss Gus out of that damned property so he could have it. He needed it. Now. Not later. Fortner’s offhand comment about a forest fire consuming the ranch had given him a new idea.

* * *

GRIFF WAS IN THE BARN WITH the parts from an old automatic posthole digger spread across a canvas on the floor. The day was warm and he appreciated the breeze through the box stall area where he was repairing the cranky equipment. Working alone for long stretches of time had given him time to think. The honesty and goodness of Miss Gus and Val had shown him how important it was to have integrity. It made him really want to apologize to Slade for the way he had treated him when he was a big shot on Wall Street. His brother had needed his help and he hadn’t offered it. He felt terrible about it now and realized the right thing was to apologize sincerely to his twin.

He heard footsteps approaching across the concrete. Lifting his head, he saw it was Val. Griff felt she was a secret pleasure to him. She was tall, lithe, her red hair in a ponytail swinging behind her shoulders. Even though she wore typical ranch clothing, Levi’s and a white, short-sleeved tee, they lovingly outlined her body. He wondered as he had many times if she had a man in her life. He’d not heard it come up in table talk and wasn’t about to broach the topic himself. That would have been out of line. He was the hired hand. Not a family member.

“How’s it going?” Val asked, halting and studying the parts of the posthole digger. She tried to quell her reaction to Griff’s gaze. On his hands and knees, a wooden toolbox nearby, he was easy to look at. The light and dark in the barn accentuated the hard planes of his sun-darkened face.

Griff gave her a half smile and he wiped his hands off on a nearby rag. “It’s going.”

“That thing hasn’t been used in years,” Val said. “I’m sure the carburetor needs to be cleaned out or replaced.”

“You’re right,” Griff agreed. He pointed to the engine piece. “I was just starting to pull it apart to see if it’s gummed up. I’m sure it is.” And that meant buying a rebuilt carburetor for the digger. If one could be found.

“Did you try starting it first?”

“I broke the rope trying to get it going. I’ll have to buy a replacement rope in town.” Griff had a tough time keeping his eyes on his work. Val was a powerful draw. Loneliness, having been without a woman for a long time, was part of the allure. Another, which Griff tucked away in his heart, was his appreciation of her as a woman who was not only attractive but had a lot of common sense. Val was nothing like the women he’d had relationships with in New York City. They were beautiful tropical birds in comparison and would never survive the harsh environment of ranch life. Val wore no jewelry, no makeup, not even lipstick. She didn’t need cosmetics. Her lips were a natural pink color. Most of all, he liked her freckles. They made her look like a young girl instead of the mature woman she was.

Val picked up the frayed and broken rope. “Well, this auger is about thirty years old. It’s DOA, dead on arrival.” She squatted in front of him, elbows resting on her thighs, opposite of where he was working. Griff had strong-looking fingers and yet, he expertly opened the engine and delicately began checking it with expert ease. His head was bent and she had a chance to absorb his strong profile. His mouth, which she found delicious, was pursed as he focused on his inspection. Her curiosity got the better of her.

“Do you miss your home?”

“What?” Griff looked up briefly. He saw in Val’s face that she was open to his answer, and she was almost approachable. It was the first time she’d talked to him in a voice other than that of a boss, and it took him by surprise. Recovering, he managed a twisted smile. “New York? No.”

“Why not? You lived there most of your life.”

“I didn’t have a choice as a kid,” he said, his fingers getting oily and dirty as he studied the carburetor. “I do as an adult.”

“Do you think you’d have come back here if you hadn’t lost your job?”

Shrugging, Griff said, “Probably not. But that’s how things happen. Life takes unexpected turns.” He looked up to see her features grow pensive. Did Val know how beautiful her blue eyes were? He wished he could tell her their color reminded him of the deep blue sky after sunset, but Griff thought better of sharing the observation. After all, she was his boss.

“I’m sorry you lost your aunt and uncle. And then to have your business fail. That must have been hard on you.”

“It was a tough time,” Griff agreed. Although it had helped to work with the FBI to help clean up the mess left behind. He’d done it gratis because he felt he’d been partly responsible for the economic collapse. The least he could do was help the FBI understand the inner workings of his and other firms on Wall Street. It had eased his guilt.

“I wonder how anyone could deal with losing all their money at once. Especially millions of dollars.” Val studied him intently and watched his mouth pull in at the corners. Griff was experiencing frustration or pain of some kind over her probing question.

Placing the carburetor into a pan that had some cleaning fluid in it, he said, “My parents didn’t have much money.” My Dad would hunt deer and elk to put meat on our table. We were pretty much raised on wild food. When I got taken back east by my uncle, it was a whole other life for me to adjust to.” Griff glanced up at her. Val’s eyes were readable and he saw so many emotions in them. Heartened that she cared, he decided to open up. “At first, I wasn’t used to the rich foods they gave me. I remember eating too much one time and throwing it up afterward.” Griff added, “I was a poor ranch kid who lived off the land, not off the fat of the land.”

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