in the radio station’s marketing campaigns.
But this was his first event for the ranch, and he needed it to go well. The Chances were family now that Alex’s sister Josie had married Jack Chance, so the ranch’s bottom line had personal significance. The Chances weren’t in immediate financial danger, but spring sales had been slow. Alex had been hired to fix that.
He’d saddled Doozie earlier that afternoon, figuring a ride might settle his nerves. Instead he’d ended up with a phone call that added to his growing list of problems. Most of the issues involved keeping the invited guests dry. Rain-filled clouds hovered on the horizon and only one of the three canopies he’d ordered had shown up. Now he had no band, either.
Live music would have gone a long way toward setting the tone for tomorrow’s open house, even if it rained. Sure, he could rig up a sound system and use canned music and his DJ abilities, but it wouldn’t have the same feel as live music, and he couldn’t be stuck behind a microphone all day.
At this point on Friday afternoon, nothing could be done about either of those glitches. He’d spent all his life in Chicago and was used to its vast resources. If one band canceled, you hired another, and if one delivery of event canopies didn’t work out, you went with a different company. Jackson Hole, Wyoming, was a whole other situation, and he was screwed.
He had to make this work, though. All three of the Chance brothers—Jack, Gabe, and Nick—had put their faith in him, and he’d do his damnedest. Everyone knew Alex Keller was a hard worker, especially his ex-wife, who’d wanted him to work less and play more.
Oh, well. Crystal was back in Chicago cavorting with her new boyfriend, and he was out here in God’s country, working his butt off because that’s who he was. And he couldn’t complain. The ranch’s location, west of a little town called Shoshone in the Jackson Hole region, was spectacular.
Following his divorce last summer, he’d left Chicago and found a combination DJ/marketing director position with a radio station in Jackson. But he’d spent more time out at the Last Chance than at his apartment in Jackson and had, to his surprise, gone country. When the offer came to work for the Chance brothers, he’d jumped at it.
Slowing Doozie to a trot as he approached the barn, he glanced over at the massive, two-story ranch house, a log structure that had grown as the family had grown. Its front windows faced north with a view of the state’s scenic crown jewel—the perpetually snowcapped Tetons. The acreage was worth millions, and the family wanted to keep every square foot of it, which meant the Chances were land rich and cash poor.
From what Alex had heard, Jonathan Chance Sr. had been comfortable with that, but after his death, his three sons had taken stock of the situation. They’d decided on a more aggressive breeding and sales program for the ranch’s registered paints to give the operation a bigger financial cushion.
Alex could see why. A ranch this size had a fair amount of overhead, including a payroll for several regular hands and a few seasonal ones, all of whom had to be housed and fed in addition to their wages. On top of that were maintenance and utility costs for the large ranch house, the bunkhouse, the heated barn and various other outbuildings.
Dismounting by the hitching post beside the barn, he answered a greeting from Emmett Sterling. The ranch foreman, a seasoned cowboy in his late fifties, paused on his way into the barn. “Want me to take care of her for you?”
“Thanks, but I’ll do it.” Alex had bonded with this bay mare, who’d put up with his beginning riding mistakes without complaint. Doozie had arrived in Jackson Hole last summer about the same time Alex had. They’d both been in need of sanctuary, and the Last Chance had provided that.
Doozie wasn’t a paint, so she couldn’t be part of the breeding program, but she’d been allowed to stay, anyway. Alex thought it was appropriate that she’d been assigned to him, because he wasn’t a cowboy, but he’d been allowed to stay, too. Doozie would never become a paint, but damned if Alex hadn’t started to feel like a cowboy.
After settling Doozie in her stall with Hornswaggled, a goat who was her constant companion, Alex headed for the ranch house, where a cold bottle of Bud was calling his name. These days he drank beer instead of wine, just as he wore jeans instead of chinos.
A guy couldn’t hang out in a living room with a wagon-wheel chandelier and Navajo rugs on the walls and keep wearing city-slicker clothes. The unwritten dress code for logging time in the cushy leather armchairs in front of the giant rock fireplace included faded jeans, boots and a Western shirt.
Alex had complied. The day he’d bought a Stetson and settled it on his head, he’d bid a permanent farewell to the Chicago city boy he used to be.
His boots echoed hollowly on the porch as he crossed to the large front door and pulled it open. No one was in the living room, which always smelled faintly of wood smoke even if the hearth was cold, like now. He turned left down a long hall. His route to the kitchen took him through the dining room with its four round tables that each sat eight people.
At this time of the afternoon the tables were empty, but three hours ago the place had bustled with activity. The Chance brothers had continued their father’s tradition of eating lunch with the hands so everyone could exchange information about ranch chores. Sarah, Jonathan’s widow, usually joined the group, and now her three daughters-in-law were included, too.
When Alex heard Sarah’s laughter coming from the kitchen, he knew she must be talking to the cook, Mary Lou Simms, who was as much a friend as an employee. Alex wished he weren’t the bearer of bad news. He’d worked hard to make this event tomorrow successful, but now he wasn’t sure it would be.
Sarah needed to know that, even if it spoiled her good mood. He could talk to the Chance brothers over dinner. Friday night was family night at the big house, a way to stay connected now that all three pairs of newlyweds lived on different sections of the ranch’s vast acreage.
Taking a deep breath, Alex walked into the kitchen and found Mary Lou and Sarah pulling baby stuff out of a mail-order box. Gabe’s wife, Morgan, was eight months pregnant, and soon-to-be grandma Sarah had obviously gone catalog shopping.
Sarah was the kind of woman who seemed ageless even though she’d let her hair go white. She wore it in a sleek bob, and her high cheekbones and flawless skin made her look years younger than she was. Her mother had been a runway model, and Sarah took after her.
Alex had heard that Mary Lou had been a blonde bombshell twenty years ago, but now she enjoyed her own excellent cooking and didn’t seem to care about a few extra pounds or the state of her unruly gray hair.
Sarah glanced at Alex as he came into the kitchen. “What do you think?” She waved an impossibly tiny shirt in a red bandanna print. “Since Gabe and Morgan won’t tell me if they’re having a boy or a girl, I’m going with unisex clothes, which is probably better because they can be handed down.”
“Cute.” Alex hoped that was the appropriate response, because he’d never given much thought to baby clothes. Crystal had been fanatic about birth control during their years together, and he’d had no burning desire to be a father, especially after the marriage began to sour. Baby clothes were foreign objects to him. “Mind if I grab a beer?”
“Help yourself.” She held up a one-piece deal that was supposed to look as if the baby wore jeans and a Western shirt, although it was printed on stretch terry. “Is this adorable or what?”
“Sure is!” Alex crossed to the refrigerator and opened it. Maybe once he’d wrapped his
