almost laughed. “That’s what I was going to say to you.”
She pointed her rolling pin at the table. “Will you sit down, please? You’re making me nervous, looming there in the doorway like that.”
“No, I really have to get back.”
“Good enough, then.”
But he just stood there and watched her plump, clever hands as she carefully folded the circle of flattened pie dough into quarters, lifted it off the floured board and gently set it in the waiting pie pan.
He remembered that he’d offered her no reassurances. “Marie, I promise you. I’ll see you’re taken care of.”
“Well, of course you will.” She opened the folded crust, shaped it to fit the sides of the pan and took up a rolling cutter.
He watched her expertly trim the excess crust from the edge, turning the pan in a circle as she worked. “There’ll be another job, a good job,” he vowed. “I was thinking you might want to be cooking, maybe something in town, at a coffee shop, something like that…”
She had a second crust ready and took the cutter to it, sectioning it into strips to make one of those fancy lattice-type top crusts that always made her pies stand out for looks, as well as flavor. “Grant.” She spoke chidingly, her skilled, swift hands continuing their work. “Stop beating yourself up. We’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”
“I told Steph.”
Those busy hands hesitated—but only for a second. “Ah.”
“I don’t think she’s ever going to forgive me.”
“You give her time, she’ll be okay.”
“Damn it, Marie. I don’t know about that.”
Behind him, down at the other end of the central hall, he heard the front door open. Steph. Her footsteps approached.
He made himself turn to face her, found her mouth set in a stern line and her eyes flat, giving him nothing.
“Did you tell her?” she asked.
Marie said sweetly, “Yes, he did.” A glance back over his shoulder showed him she hadn’t even looked up from laying the strips of dough in a crosswise pattern onto a floured sheet of aluminum foil.
“You leaving, then?” Steph said. It wasn’t really a question.
The thing was, even while she was looking at him with those dead eyes, he still wanted to reach for her, haul her up close, breathe in the warm, sweet scent of her hair, feel her body snug and soft all along the length of his. He wanted to lower his head and crush his mouth to those unwilling lips—until she sighed and opened for him.
But of course, he did no such thing. He said, “I have to talk to Rufus and Jim.”
“Don’t worry. I already told them.”
“Great,” he said, guiltily tamping down a flare of resentment at her for taking a job that should have been his. “Still, I want to have a few words with them.”
“They’re in the barn.”
“Well. All right, then.” He hit his hat on his thigh. “See you later, Marie.”
Marie sent him a smile as loving and warm as any she’d ever bestowed on him. “Ride safe, now.”
“I will. He nodded at the cold-eyed woman standing beside him. “Steph.”
“Grant.” She said his name as if it made a bad taste in her mouth.
In the barn, he reassured Rufus and Jim that he’d find other jobs for them. Jim nodded and thanked him.
Rufus said, “Hell, boy. I know you’ll take care of us. Haven’t you always?” He didn’t say anything about how John Clifton was probably rolling over in his grave at the thought that his own son planned to sell the ranch he’d sweated blood over, the ranch that had been in the Clifton family for five generations.
Grant was damn grateful for Rufus’s silence on that subject.
He tipped his hat at the cowboys and left the barn. Out in the sun, Titan was waiting, hitched where he’d left him. He mounted up and got the hell out of there.
* * *
Grant rode Titan harder than he should have. He reached the resort in forty minutes. He turned the lathered horse over to the head groom and went up to the lodge. In his suite, he showered and changed into business clothes and went down the hill to the office complex.
Once he’d settled behind his desk, he called his assistant in. She gave him his messages, reminding him that he had an important dinner that night with two of the resort’s main backers.
He hadn’t forgotten. “Drinks in the Lounge at seven-thirty. Dinner at eight in the Gallatin Room. Right?”
She smiled and nodded. “You have some voice mail, too.”
“I’ll check it now.”
She left him. He played through his voice mail. Nothing urgent. He checked e-mail—or at least, he brought up his e-mail program and stared at the screen.
Really, though, all he saw was Steph. Her sweet, open face, smiling up at him, eyes shining with admiration and trust. And the way she’d looked Sunday, right after he kissed her, soft mouth red and swollen, eyes full of dreams…
Did she hate him now? Was she ever going to forgive him for the way he’d behaved, for selling off Clifton’s Pride when she was so happy there?
He tried to tell himself that maybe, if she hated him, that would be for the best. If she hated him, she’d stay clear of him. It would be a hell of a lot easier to keep his hands off her if she refused to come near him. She’d be safe from him.
He wanted that. He did. He wanted to…protect her from himself—and any other guys like him. From guys who didn’t want to get serious. Guys who would steal her tender innocence and then, in the end, walk away and leave her hurting.
The phone rang. He let his assistant answer, but took it when she buzzed him to tell him it was Caleb Douglas.
Since failing health had pretty much forced him to retire, Caleb was at loose ends a lot of the time. Grant listened to the old guy ramble on for a while before finally cutting the monologue short, saying he had a meeting he had to get to.
After the call from Caleb, he took calls from a tour packager and from Arletta Hall. In her fifties, Arletta owned a gift shop in town. She reminded him that he was expected to be at the big parking lot on the corner of North Main and Cedar Street the next day at 11:00 a.m. sharp.
He promised he’d be there, rigged out in the costume she’d dropped off at the concierge for him last Friday, ready to climb on the float and smile and wave his way down Main Street.
“Does it fit all right?” Arletta fussed. “It’s fine,” he replied automatically, though
