than her usual smattering of holiday spirit. “I’m perfectly willing to shovel manure and do whatever as well as manage my guests’ lodging and entertainment needs.” She’d even learn how to cook and change bedding if she had to. And given her luck lately in holding on to ranching staff—well, hands, they were called—she just might need to.
He made a strangled sort of sound, as if he were trying not to choke. Or laugh.
This was not going the way she’d hoped.
Nothing about coming to Thunder Canyon was going the way she’d hoped. Scratch that. Even before she’d come to Thunder Canyon, nothing had gone the way she’d thought it would.
She was supposed to be in Atlanta, still capably running the newest jewel in the family crown—McFarlane House Atlanta. She would be, too, if she hadn’t found out that while she’d been running things, her father and brother had been behind the scenes really calling the shots. She’d been nothing more than a figurehead. An ignorant, humiliated figurehead.
“Mr. Chilton—”
“Think you might as well call me Russ, ma’am.” He leaned back in his high-backed bar stool, hooking an elbow behind him and looking every inch the poster boy for Western living.
Only there was nothing boyish about Russ Chilton.
From the tips of his leather boots—polished only because this was supposed to be a Christmas party, she suspected—up the six feet-plus of rangy muscle covered in black denim and thick Irish wool to the top of his dirty-blond hair that always seemed disheveled and an inch too long, he was a supremely well-grown male.
He wasn’t handsome in the strictest sense. His nose was too hawkish, his jaw too square and stubborn.
But the end result was definitely good-looking.
But was he too good-looking for her peace of mind?
She needed someone believable, but she certainly didn’t need someone she was in danger of falling for.
Fortunately for her, Russ Chilton could hardly stand her. So all she had to do was convince him they could help one another, and maybe she had a chance of success where the Hopping H was concerned.
“Fine.” She sipped her drink, reminding herself that she was the one in control of this little tête-à-tête. “Russ. I know that you were interested in acquiring the Hopping H.”
He sat forward suddenly, folding his elbows on the small high-top table, and seeming to take up all of her oxygen as he fairly loomed over her. “Interested?” There was no Western hospitality showing in his flinty brown eyes. “I had an offer in on the place with those city fools who inherited it from their grandparents, and you know it.”
“And I beat your offer,” she said reasonably. “It was simply a matter of business, Mr., er, Russ. It was nothing personal.”
“Things in a town like Thunder Canyon are personal,” he said evenly. “At least they always have been before—” His lips twisted again and he jerked his chin slightly, as if to encompass not only their surroundings, but the town beyond the walls of the Thunder Canyon Resort. “We don’t need more progress,” he said flatly. “We damn sure don’t need more tourists to fill up the beds at your guest ranch. Go open a McFarlane House somewhere else, honey.”
The “honey” was hardly an endearment. If anything, it was condescending, and her resolve stiffened. She didn’t need condescension from anyone. She’d been living with plenty of it from her own family, thank you very much.
It was one of the things she hoped to put an end to once and for all. All she needed was to turn the Hopping H into a success. A McFarlane-sized success.
Then maybe she’d finally get the respect she deserved.
“Progress is inevitable, Russ.” Her teeth snapped off his name as it lingered on her tongue. “Which any intelligent person should recognize.”
“Guess I’m just a dumb, backwoods hick, then.” His drawl was deliberately thick. “Mebbe I should ’jess tip ma hat and thank ya for the opportunity of purrtendin’ to be yer—”
“Shh. Keep your voice down. Please.” She looked around them. Even at the late hour, there were plenty of partygoers still present, and she certainly didn’t want someone overhearing. It had been foolish of her to bring up the subject with Russ at this time, anyway.
But she’d been watching him most of the evening as he worked through the crowd, seeming to be friendly with about half the guests. And then, when he’d been standing with his friend, Grant Clifton, who owned the original property she’d hoped to purchase, her thoughts had just seemed to finally coalesce.
Russ Chilton owned the Flying J, which bordered a sizable portion of the Hopping H.
He was her closest neighbor and he’d wanted the property for himself.
So she’d taken the bit between her teeth and run with it.
Just like her parents were always telling her—she’d obviously acted too hastily.
“What’s the matter, Miz McFarlane?” His brown eyes hadn’t warmed one iota. “If you’d wanted strict privacy for this discussion, you could have chosen a more discreet setting.”
He was absolutely correct, of course. All he needed now was to tell her that she was behaving impetuously, and she’d suspect that Russ Chilton counted mind reading among his various talents. “Perhaps I thought you might be more approachable in a social setting.” She turned the stem of her glass again. “A miscalculation on my part.” She slid off the chair and gathered up her small red purse. “I’m sorry to have bothered you.”
Her heart was in her throat as she turned to leave.
“Hold on there, Red.”
Everything inside her sagged with relief but she knew that not a speck of that weakness showed on the outside. Thirty years of McFarlane existence had taught her that, at least.
She slowly turned on her heel, ignoring the way her head swam, and smoothed back a lock of her short hair that had fallen forward against her cheek. She gently lifted her eyebrows with inquiry. “Yes?”
“Is that look an acquired skill or a genetic trait?”
She tucked her slender purse beneath her arm, remaining silent.
He let out an aggravated breath. “Sit back down.” He reached over and jerked her chair a few inches out from the table.
“Such gallantry.” She slid back onto the high chair, slowly settling her purse in her lap. Outside the windows that overlooked the mountainside, the bright twinkly white lights seemed to dance more than usual. She blinked and focused instead on Russ’s face.
It was not twinkly at all, and far more steady.
“Do I take it that you are interested in my offer, then?”
“Like you said. I’m interested in the Hopping H.”
“Then we have an agreement.” Act as if success
