Mary.” He made his voice sincere and respectful, with just the right easy touch of warmth. Gabe was a master at reading people, at gauging how they saw themselves and how they wanted to be treated. It was part of his job as the family lawyer and so-called “fixer,” the one they sent in when things weren’t going as planned. Most women, whatever their age or marital status, liked a little harmless flirting from a man. They liked to be noticed and appreciated.
Not this woman. She preferred her interactions simple and direct and she didn’t flirt with strangers. Gabe had known that at the door, the moment he gazed into those big brown eyes with the weary dark circles beneath them.
“You might as well go ahead and…” She stopped in mid-sentence. Wincing, she laid her hand on the side of her giant stomach.
Alarm had him sitting up straighter. “What is it, Mary?” Was she going to drop the kid right there at the table? “Is something wrong?”
She let out a long breath and patted the air between them with her palm. “No. It’s fine. It’s nothing. A cramp. Please. Can we get on with this?”
“Absolutely.” He preferred to start out with at least a few minutes of conversation, to establish a better tone—less dry and rushed, more casual. And friendly. Most people found it hard to say no to a friend. But she wanted him to move it along. So he pretended to do that. He got out his laptop. “This’ll just take a minute…” He aimed the back of the screen her way and punched a few keys, to make it look like he was setting things up.
She said, sounding really tired, “You know, you can stall all you want to, trying to figure out the most effective way to come at me, but it won’t do you any good.” She had leaned back in the chair and rested her hand on the swell of her stomach. Her eyes were closed and she spoke with the drowsy voice of someone seriously in need of a long nap. “I meant what I said to you at the door. And what I said to those three other guys you sent before. It makes no difference how much you offer me, I will never sell the Lazy H.”
Never say never, Mary. “Why not?”
She opened her eyes and frowned at him. “It doesn’t matter why not—except to me.”
He studied her face for a moment, thinking that his job here would be easier if she were a little needier and not quite so smart. “Here’s what matters,” he told her. “Sell that overgrown hundred and twenty acres out there to Bravo-Corp at the price I’m going to offer you this morning and you’ll be a wealthy woman. You—and your baby—will never want for anything for the rest of your lives. You can go to bed and get some rest when I leave because you won’t have to work. Not today. Not ever again.”
With another soft grunt, she sat a little straighter. “There are worse things than not having a lot of money. And better things than being rich. Things like a place you love to be. Like having good people to care for, who care for you. This ranch is the place I love to be. And as for having to work, well, isn’t that a lot of what life’s about? It’s true I’m pretty beat today, but I like to work, most of the time. And if I sold out to BravoCorp so you could carve the land my husband loved into pricey half-acre lots, well, I’d never forgive myself.” The coffeemaker sputtered. She glanced toward the sound.
“Let me.” He half-rose.
“No.” She waved him off and pushed herself upright. “I’ll do it. I don’t mind at all.” She went on over there and got down a mug. “Milk and sugar?”
“Just black.”
She filled the mug and brought it to him, her belly leading the way. “There you go.” Resting one hand on the back of his chair, she set the mug beside his laptop. He found himself staring at her throat, for some reason. Her skin looked soft. A loose curl of hair curved against her cheek. She smelled of soap and lemons—and she had seen the laptop’s screen. “Well, what do you know, Gabe? I think it’s finally all ready to go.” She glanced at him, those tired, dark eyes suddenly dancing.
Too damn smart, he thought. Too smart by half.
He pulled the nearest chair closer. “Sit down here.” He patted the seat. “Where you can see.”
She sent him a look of ironic good humor. “It’s not going to matter if I can see that screen or not.”
“Sit down, anyway. Listen to what I have to say, watch what I have to show you.”
With reluctance, she did. “All right, Gabe. Hit me with the pie charts and the tricolor graphs.”
He sipped his coffee, made a sound of approval. “So many fancy ways to make coffee now. But I still prefer it fresh out of a can, brewed in a regular coffeemaker. Or boiled on an open fire, with eggshells at the bottom of the pot to cut the bitterness.”
She folded her arms on top of her stomach. “Go out camping a lot, do you?”
“My family owns a ranch not far from here, Bravo Ridge. I’ve spent a lot of nights outside around a campfire, mostly when I was growing up.”
“Brothers and sisters?”
“Six brothers, two sisters.”
“Big family.” She seemed surprised.
“That’s right.”
She asked, “You the oldest?”
“No, second born.”
“So why don’t you build your fancy houses on your own ranch?”
Had he seen that one coming? You bet he had. He sipped more coffee and told her why his family ranch wouldn’t do—even if the family had been willing to let it go. “Bravo Ridge is too far from a major highway. The plan is to build a top-quality San Antonio bedroom community that’s just far enough out to be considered in the country. With energy and oil prices so high, access and reasonable commute times are going to be key.”
“Plus, it’s your family ranch, right? Your…heritage. Your history. No way you’d let some developer build tract homes on it.”
She had it right. He changed the subject. “Mary. Please.
Not tract homes. Each house will be one of a kind. It’s a fine plan we’ve put together.” He gestured toward the glasstopped back door. It opened onto a patio—he could see the rusting metal patio cover. Beyond that, across a rough patch of drying grass and a wide dirt driveway, there was a barn and a few other rundown outbuildings and pens. “Your land will be put to good use.”
“My land is already put to good use.”
He spoke gently again. “You’re a freelance writer, Mary, not a rancher. We both know you barely have time to take care of the few animals your husband left you. With the baby coming, it’s only going to get more difficult for you.”
“I’ll manage.”
“Your land is overgrown.”
“I like it that way.”
It’s dangerous that way, he thought. A damn wildfire waiting to happen. But she might take such a remark as some kind of veiled threat and that wasn’t the tone he was going for. “I’m only saying that the land itself
