been any real closeness between any of them, except for Loyal and Ridge.
But, to be perfectly honest, Gard would not have recognized Cassandra Whitfield if their paths had crossed accidentally. His memories of her were as vague as last night’s dreams, and speaking of dreams, he felt as though one had just walked into his life.
“Hello,” he said with a warm, welcoming smile.
“Hello.” Cass’s voice was as cool as iced lemonade. She glanced around the room. It was obviously one of the Plantation’s banquet rooms, but only one table and two chairs were set up. There was a pot of coffee, containers of cream and sugar, a pitcher of ice water, two cups, two glasses, two spoons and two napkins on the table.
Gard gestured at the arrangement. “Would you like to sit down?”
“Yes, thank you.” Her mind worked behind a smooth, silky expression. He looks the same. How dare he look the same after fourteen years? Still outrageously handsome, with thick, black hair and those piercing blue eyes.
Gard watched her gracefully cross to the table and chairs, and he sat down when she did. He wasn’t sure he liked her hairdo, which was a twisted coil around her head, every strand tightly in place. Her dress, though, was great, a simply styled, off-white garment that looked very expensive to his eyes. So did her matching pumps and purse. She had dressed up for this meeting, and maybe he should have figured on a little more formality than jeans.
But, what the hell? He was a boots-and-jeans man, which Cassandra Whitfield had to know if she remembered him at all.
“How are you?” he asked politely. “It’s been a long time.”
“Yes, a long time,” Cass agreed, also politely.
“I’m sorry about Ridge. Like my own father, Ridge died much too young.”
“Yes, he did.”
Gard frowned. She was so distant, as though they were meeting for the first time ever. A strange, elusive sense of something missing from his memory suddenly struck him. It had to do with her, with Cassandra. But that name. Had she gone by “Cassandra” in the old days? Somehow that name didn’t fit in with any of his memories.
“Coffee?” he asked. “Or water?”
“No, thank you.” Cass placed her purse on a corner of the table. The word rebel had invaded her brain and wouldn’t go away. Rebel Sterling. That was what people used to call him, and with good reason. In her mind’s eye were visions of Gard pushing his huge, black-and-chrome Harley-Davidson motorcycle to its limits, riding that machine as though he were an extension of it, hair flying, engine roaring, darting in and out of traffic on the highway, or cutting through someone’s field at sixty miles an hour. And he drank. Everyone had known he drank. He’d been picked up by the law several times for drinking and driving, and somehow—probably because of his daddy’s money and influence—he’d always gotten out of his scrapes. He’d been spoiled rotten by Loyal and doted on by his mother, until her death when Gard was fifteen. Fourteen years ago, when Cass left the valley, Gard had done whatever he pleased, and Cassandra felt he probably still believed the world had been created solely for his enjoyment.
Uneasy over the intense scrutiny she was receiving from across the table, Cass cleared her throat. “I don’t have a lot of time, so I would appreciate getting right to that contract.”
“That’s why we’re here,” Gard replied, sounding agreeable. “But there’s something about you...” He paused. “I can’t quite put a finger on it. Did people call you Cassandra before you left the valley?”
“It’s my name. Why wouldn’t they?” But her cheeks got warm. People hadn’t called her Cassandra, but no way was she going to remind this man of her old nickname.
But a peculiar thought was taking shape in the back of her mind: Gard didn’t really remember her. Oh, he remembered the name Cassandra Whitfield, all right, and he certainly knew who she was. But he did not remember her! Which meant that he also didn’t remember that night at the sand dunes.
Something deflated within Cassandra, her pride, perhaps. Certainly her femaleness felt the blow. The possibility of him having completely forgotten the most startling event of her own life hadn’t occurred to her.
Her own memory insulted her further, the days and weeks immediately following that night. He hadn’t called or contacted her in any way, and she had wept buckets of guilt and remorse and resentment.
Her face became a little harder. “Let’s get down to business, Gard. You’ve had three months to think about that buy/sell option, and I need an answer. Let me lay my cards on the table. I intend to sell the Whitfield ranch, and it’s immaterial to me who buys it. If you want it, it’s yours. But you have to make up your mind. I can’t put the property on the open market until you sign away your rights to that option.”
With his eyes narrowed on her, Gard leaned back in his chair. “Why are you in such a hurry to sell? Doesn’t your home mean anything to you?”
“My home is in Oregon,” Cass said coolly. “I would like to get back to it, and your vacillation—to put it bluntly—is preventing me from doing so. If you say no to the option, then I can put Dad’s property in the hands of a reliable real estate agent and stop worrying about it. That’s all I want from you, a yes or a no, and I really don’t care which it is.”
“Have you read the contract?” Gard asked.
“Of course I’ve read it. It surprised me, I don’t mind admitting. Did you know about it before Dad died?”
“I’ve known about it since my dad died,” Gard said. “You know, that contract consigns you the same legal rights it does me.”
Cass smirked slightly. “But I can give you an unequivocal no right now. I wouldn’t buy your place under any circumstances.” She leaned forward. “Why can’t you do the same for me? Either you want the Whitfield ranch or you don’t. Where is the problem in that decision?”
He was studying her, thinking hard. Both the Sterlings and the Whitfields had been well-off in his youth, and he would bet anything that Ridge Whitfield’s estate—which Cassandra had inherited—was financially secure. The Sterlings hadn’t fared quite so well. Actually, the Sterlings had done extremely well until Loyal died. That was ten years ago, about four or five years after Cassandra left the valley. Like her, Gard had inherited everything, the ranch, the equipment, the stock and the bank accounts.
But Gard wasn’t a carbon copy of Loyal Sterling, and he’d been right in his prime, twenty-five years old and full of vinegar. He had grieved for his father for a while, but life had been so damned exciting that his period of mourning hadn’t lasted for long. He went a little crazy spending money, chasing women, buying cars and motorcycles, drinking and carousing and having a hell of a good time.
Then, one day after four years of neglecting the ranch, he happened to be walking around outside, just wandering aimlessly and realizing that he didn’t want to go drinking that night. He didn’t want to drop in at any of his old hangouts, nor go after the prettiest gal in town, nor ride his newest Harley-Davidson motorcycle or drive one of his cars hell-bent for leather.
His eyes had narrowed on the weeds that had sprung up around trees and fence posts. The paint was cracked and peeling on every building. His father had never left any chore undone during his lifetime, and
