many of the twelve guest cottages are rented?”
Claire flushed. “Thanksgiving is two weeks away.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
She let out an aggravated breath and shot him a challenging look that in no way detracted from her femininity. “Right now, we have three of the cottages rented. Mr. and Mrs. Finglestein from upstate New York are here for two weeks. They’re avid birders. Ginger Haedrick is here until the house she is building is ready to move into—that may not be until Thanksgiving week, though she’d like to get in sooner and is pushing the builder along. It might work—Ginger is one of the real estate brokers in the area.”
“I’ve met her.” She seemed ambitious, almost ruthlessly so. “She came by the bank to give me her business card, and offered to find me a place to live as soon as my town home in Fort Stockton sells.”
“And then we have T. S. Sturgeon, the mystery writer, who’s here on deadline, trying to finish a book. I think she’ll be at least a few more weeks, but again, it all depends.”
“Which means you have a quarter of the cottages rented,” he stated.
“It’s off-season.”
“How are the bookings for the holidays?”
Claire Olander pursed her incredibly soft-looking lips. “Does it matter? It seems you’ve already made up your mind that the Red Sage Guest Ranch and Retreat is a failure.”
“I didn’t say that.”
Eyes flashing, she took a deep, bolstering breath. “Your questions implied it.”
Silence thrummed between them.
“Here’s the bottom line.” Heath tried again. “If nine months pass and the trust is not productive—not turning a profit—something must be done. The mineral rights could be sold, for example.”
“No!” She cut him off, her voice unexpectedly sharp.
“Or a portion of the business.”
“Absolutely not!” She vaulted to her feet.
Heath stood, too. He put his notes away. “Look, I’m aware this is a lot to digest. You’ve got two weeks to think about it. In any case, on December first, the Tuesday after Thanksgiving, I am going to have to make some changes.”
“What if I can get the bookings up and demonstrate that the business will start turning a profit immediately? Would that change things?”
Heath nodded. “Definitely. The trust doesn’t have to be making a large profit, Claire. Particularly if there is potential for a lot of growth in the long run. There just has to be some.”
She shrugged and planted both hands on her slim hips. “Well, then, I’ll make it happen.”
Trying hard not to notice how the preemptive action had drawn her sweater and blazer against her breasts, Heath said, “Speaking of vacancies…What would you think about me renting one of the cabins for the next few weeks?”
Claire froze, regarding him suspiciously. “The ranch is a twenty-five-minute drive from town.”
Heath told himself he was not doing this to help her out financially. Nor was he doing it because she was treating him in a way that young and beautiful women never did. “I don’t mind the commute,” he told her with a challenging grin. And he liked the peace and quiet of the ranch. Liked the backdrop of rough granite and wild meadows, the mountainous backpacking terrain. This, he thought, was southwest Texas at its best.
He’d only been out here half an hour and he could see why she was so determined to hang on to her inheritance.
She studied him impassively. “When did you want to move in?”
“Tonight.”
To her credit, she didn’t so much as blink. Rather, she reached into her desk and removed a rental contract, plucked a pen from the holder on her desk and pushed both toward him. “How long do you want to stay?”
“Until my place in Fort Stockton sells and I find one here.”
This time, he noted, she did blink. “So we’re talking…”
“Weeks. Possibly months.”
She paused. Whether she was happy about his request or wary, he couldn’t tell. “I assume we’re talking about a one bedroom cottage?” she said finally.
He matched her pragmatic tone. “Yes.”
Claire told him what the rate would be.
“Sounds fine.”
After she made a copy of his credit card, she took a map of the ranch and a thick ring of keys from her desk. “You can have Cabin 1, which is closest to the ranch house, or Cabin 8.”
“I’ll take the closest one to the ranch house,” Heath said without hesitation.
Claire led the way out of the office. Together, they walked across the gravel parking area, past a big red barn, to the path that led to the dozen cottages. The rustically designed structures were spaced well apart and attractively landscaped with native grasses and shrubs. The November air was brisk and clean, the red sage the guest ranch was named after in full bloom.
Claire stopped at the first homestead-style cottage. The one-story building had white clapboard sides, red shutters and door, and a sloping slate-gray roof. She unlocked the door and gestured him to enter. “As you can see, the unit has a small sitting room and a galley kitchen. The bedroom has a queen size bed. Thermostat is here.” She pointed to the wall, then the closet. “Extra linens are there. Cabins are made up once a week, unless you want to pay for daily maid service.”
“Once a week is fine.”
“There is a complimentary breakfast buffet every morning in the front parlor of the ranch house.” Claire pressed the key into his hand and glided toward the front door.
Heath followed, surprised how sorry he was to see her go. “Dinner—?”
She flashed a regretful smile. “—is not currently offered.”
“HOW DID IT GO?” Orrin Webb asked.
Heath bypassed his own office, heading for the branch manager’s. Orrin was very old-school, from his salt-and-pepper crew cut, to the horn-rimmed glasses he wore. He exuded a by-the-book attitude, mirrored by his starched white, button-down shirt and dark suit.
Shrugging, Heath sank into a chair opposite his boss’s desk. “About as well as could be expected, given the news I had to deliver.”
Orrin rocked back in his chair and propped his fingertips together. “I take it she’s resisting any easy fixes?”
“Like selling off part of the business? Yeah.”
“You don’t need her permission to do anything in regard to the trust,” Orrin reminded
