Clint had no idea what to do, so he bent and picked up the papers that had scattered across the floor. He scanned the top sheet. Pathology report. Dated October 1 of this year. A handwritten note about getting a second opinion was scrawled in the margin.
“He must not have known for long. A month, tops.” Clint handed her the papers, but she kept her arms by her sides, her hands balled into fists.
“He kept this from me.” Her words were tight, cold, hard. “He robbed me of helping him.”
“I’m sorry—”
“The faucet will have to wait. I need to be alone.”
Clint nodded, set the documents on a shelf and left. His thoughts were jumbled as he strode under the dark sky back to his cabin. Lexi had so many dimensions. He’d seen her exhausted, mourning, professional, playful and now this. Whatever this was. Upset didn’t quite explain it.
Betrayed, most likely. It was the lying part she’d focused on.
And the lying part was something he knew a little too well.
A pit formed in his stomach. He’d been keeping something from her, too. But what could he do about it now? She was already reeling from her father’s death. Finding out RJ had known about the cancer had put her over the edge. If Clint came clean and told her about how he lost his property, it would add to her burdens. She’d fire him and be left without a manager. She’d work night and day to save this ranch as well as her company, and she’d be as hollowed out as she’d been when she hired him.
It wouldn’t be right to add to her problems to selfishly clear his conscience.
He ducked his chin against the snow pellets. Why was she so upset about her dad not telling her, anyhow? A month seemed pretty quick to go from diagnosis to death. Maybe RJ had planned on filling her in at Thanksgiving. Or maybe he thought he was invincible. From all accounts, he sounded like the kind of guy Clint had been surrounded by his entire adult life—a tough Wyoming rancher who never admitted defeat, not even to cancer.
Regardless, Clint and Lexi weren’t close. They’d only known each other a short time. Not telling her about his past wasn’t a betrayal. He was doing what she’d hired him to do—managing the ranch.
Speaking of which... He hadn’t secured additional feed for the winter. If he didn’t find any in the next week or so, they would have to sell the calves at the scheduled date or risk losing valuable cattle in the frigid months ahead.
Was he making the best decisions for the ranch? Maybe he’d been lying to himself and his past was affecting his work performance.
His porch light glowed, and he muttered under his breath at the sight of Banjo curled up on the welcome mat the same way he’d been every night since Clint had found him there last Thursday. Each night he’d tried to take the dog back to the barn, but Banjo wouldn’t budge from the porch.
“We’ve got to stop meeting like this.” Clint bent to stroke Banjo’s black-and-white fur, and the dog got to his feet, wagging his tail and adoring Clint with his big brown eyes. “This isn’t your home. You can’t stay here.”
Banjo cocked his head.
“Fine. I can’t have you freezing. You can sleep on the floor. Just this once.” He unlocked the door. He’d said those same words every night, and just this once had turned into Banjo, you own me. “Okay, I’ll admit I’m a pushover. But you are sleeping on the floor.”
The idea of Banjo sleeping on the end of his bed appealed to him, but he couldn’t allow it. He didn’t want the dog living with him. Banjo was old, arthritic, and Clint doubted he would make it through the next year. Growing attached to the dog would not be smart. He’d lose him, too.
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