we simply need the venue.”
“Twenty miles down the main road on your left at, let’s say, seven?”
“The name of the establishment?”
“Milton Ranch.”
He did a double take. “You’re inviting me to dinner at your house?”
“Trust me, Mr. Warren.” She pivoted around and, hand still cupped low in that pocket, spoke over her shoulder as she moved off. “I believe you’ll find the experience most rewarding.”
As Elizabeth entered the Cattleman’s Club dining room, a few people nearest the entrance glanced up from their meals or pre-luncheon drinks. She’d grown up knowing a great many of these folk, and anyone whose eye caught hers offered a warm smile.
At one time she’d rebelled against the idea of spending the majority of her time in Royal. Now, that seemed so long ago. In reality it had been only four years since her parents’ deaths and her own life had taken a sharp turn. But, frankly, she was grateful for the legal roadblocks her mother and father had erected to help steer her against a course she would likely have taken—a course that would have led her away from her roots.
If she breached the terms of their will by spending more than two months away from home during any twelve-month period, she would forfeit the majority of her inheritance, not merely the ranch but also, she’d come to realize, a good portion of her identity—who she was and continued wanting to be.
Still she couldn’t deny that meeting Daniel Warren just now had more than rekindled her interest in places beyond these borders. Daniel was different, Elizabeth decided as she handed her coat to the maître d’. Amusing. Dark and polished and New York cool. Abigail had said her visiting architect was extremely successful. He’d have traveled widely and often. A man of the world.
Not that she opposed good Texan stock, Elizabeth noted, heading for her usual table in a far corner by a row of windows. In fact, when the time came to start a family, her partner would more likely than not hail from these parts. At the very least he’d appreciate her situation and stand one hundred percent behind her commitment to keep the Milton Ranch. Which ruled out hotshot architects from up North.
Although, God knows, that boy was cute.
Chad pushed to his feet as she skirted around the remaining tables.
“I was about to see what was keeping you,” he said, retracting her chair.
“I’m not going anywhere,” she replied in a sweet but pointed tone.
“I was only—”
“I know you were only.”
She swallowed that spike of irritation and calmly collected the menu. But Chad wasn’t prepared to let it go.
“Elizabeth, it’s my duty to watch out for you.”
“I’m not a child,” she reminded him. She’d been twenty-one when he’d been handed, via the will, the role of her financial advisor. But she was older now, wiser and far more responsible.
“Your parents only had your best interests at heart when they included that caveat and put me in charge.”
He leaned closer, about to say more, when the waiter arrived and took their orders—steak for him, pecan and avocado salad for her. Chad was looking thoughtful, pouring iced tea, when he spoke next.
“That man—Mr. Warren …”
“Abigail Langley’s architect.” Relishing a grin, Elizabeth reached for her glass. “I can’t wait to see the results of that election come December.”
Chad scoffed. “If Abigail expects votes to swing her way because of an eyesore of a design like that, she’s dreaming more than I’d thought.”
Elizabeth wouldn’t touch his comment about the design. “I’m sure the majority commend the committee for awarding Abigail full membership privileges after her husband passed away. She has as much right as any member to stand for president. If it weren’t for her late husband’s ancestors, there wouldn’t be a Texas Cattleman’s Club,” she said.
“At the risk of sounding sexist, it’s not the Cattleperson’s Club.”
“Perhaps it ought to be.”
“Change isn’t always good, Elizabeth. Sometimes it can lead to discord. To ruin.”
And sometimes it was necessary. Even exciting. But she wouldn’t waste her breath. Instead, her cheeks warm from building annoyance, she took a long sip of cool tea.
“Have you and Mr. Warren met before?”
“No.” She set her glass on the table.
“He seems a smooth sort.”
She grinned again. “Yes, he does.”
“I don’t trust him.”
Enough. She met Chad Tremain’s gaze square on.
“You were a dear friend of my parents, I count you as a friend of mine, but drop it.” She forced a short laugh to temper her tone. “Okay?”
“It’s just … Elizabeth, you know that I care.”
His fingers edged over the table. Her stomach knotting, Elizabeth slid her hand away and locked both sets of fingers in her lap. Yes, she knew Chad cared, far more than she would have liked. He was too serious and staid and not her type at all. Couldn’t he see she wasn’t interested?
In fact, despite her parents’ wishes, if there were any way to dismiss him as her financial advisor she’d do it. However, for now at least, she was hog-tied. The terms of the will were set until her thirtieth birthday. Sitting here now and feeling inordinately constrained, it might as well be her sixtieth.
Needing to change the subject, she cast a glance around the buzzing room. “Where’s Mr. Michaels?” Her bank manager.
Sitting back, Chad nodded at his cell phone, placed on the other side of his cutlery.
“Detained. I thought we could review the figures of those larger annuities while we wait.”
Elizabeth sipped tea and listened as Chad spouted off strings of figures, but after a few minutes, his voice seemed to blend with other sounds—glasses pinging, cutlery clicking, people chatting, laughing. And suddenly, through the condensation of the pitcher that sat at the center of their table, a face swam up.
Glossy dark hair. A hint of Latin heritage, perhaps. Sea-green eyes full of questions and possibilities. Then there was the confident air that exuded strength but also cloaked a more vulnerable side, if she weren’t mistaken. She barely knew Daniel Warren and yet something very real about him made her heart beat faster than a piston hammering at full throttle.
What would Chad say if he knew she’d gone and asked him to dinner?
“Elizabeth?”
Starting, she snapped her attention back to
