he called out.
Ordinarily, that was not a term Connie would answer to. But this one time, she made an exception. People acted differently out here. So rather than get into her car, Connie turned around and looked at him, waiting for the cowboy to say something further.
Raising his voice, Finn remained where he was. “You got a name?” he asked.
“Yes, I do,” Connie replied.
With that she slid in behind the steering wheel of her car, shut her door and started up her engine.
Always leave them wanting more was an old adage she had picked up along the way, thanks to her grandfather. Her grandfather had taught her a great many things. He had told her, just before he passed away, that he had great faith in her. The only thing her father had ever conveyed to her was that she was a huge and ongoing source of disappointment to him.
Her grandfather, she knew, would have walked away from her father a long time ago. At the very least, he would have given up trying to please her father, given up trying to get him to take some sort of positive notice of her.
But she was too stubborn to give up.
Knocked down a number of times for one reason or another, she still got up, still dusted herself off and was still damn determined to someday make her father actually pay her a compliment—or die trying to get it out of him.
* * *
CONNIE SPENT THE rest of the afternoon driving around, getting marginally acquainted with the lay of the surrounding land. She took in the reservation, as well—if driving around its perimeter could be considered taking it in. She never got out of her vehicle, never drove through the actual terrain because even circumnavigating it managed to create an almost overwhelming sadness within her.
Her father had been right about one thing. She was a child of affluence. The sight of poverty always upset her. But rather than fleeing and putting it out of her mind, what she had seen seemed to seep into her very soul. She could not imagine how people managed to go on day after day in such oppressive surroundings.
It also made her wonder why the reservation residents didn’t just band together, tear some of the worst buildings down and start fresh, putting up something new in their place.
Not your problem, Con. Your father issued you a challenge. One he seemed pretty confident would make you fall flat on your face. It’s up to you to show him once and for all that he’s wrong about you. That he’s underestimated you all along.
* * *
THAT THOUGHT WAS still replaying itself in her head when she finally drove back into Forever late that afternoon. She was hungry, and the idea of dinner—even one prepared at what she viewed to be a greasy-spoon establishment—was beginning to tempt her.
But as much as she wanted to eat, she wanted to finish up her homework even more.
In this case, her homework entailed checking out the local—and lone—bar to see the kind of people who hung out there. She wanted to meet them, mingle with them and get to know them, at least in some cursory fashion. She was going to need bodies if she hoped to get her project underway, and Murphy’s was where she hoped to find at least some of them.
Right now all she knew was that her father had purchased a tract of land within Forever at a bargain price because no one else was interested in doing anything with it. A little research on her part had shown that the town was deficient in several key departments, not the least of which was that it had nowhere to put up the occasional out-of-town visitor—which she just assumed Forever had to have at least once in a while. That particular discovery was confirmed when she went to book a hotel room and found that the nearest hotel was some fifty miles away from the center of Forever.
The hick town, her father had informed her through Emerson, his right-hand man, needed to have a hotel built in its midst. Giving her the assignment, her father washed his hands of it, leaving all the details up to her.
And just like that, it became her responsibility to get the hotel built for what, on paper, amounted to a song.
Her father had hinted that if she could bring the project in on time and on budget—or better yet, under budget, he might just take her potential within the company more seriously.
But she needed to prove herself worthy of his regard, of his trust. And until that actually happened, he had no real use for her. He made no effort to hide the fact that he was on the verge of telling her that he no longer needed her services.
Connie had every intention of showing her father just what a vital asset she could be to his construction conglomerate. She also promised herself that she was going to make him eat his words; it was just a matter of time.
Stopping her vehicle behind Murphy’s, Connie parked the car as close to the building as she could. The gleaming white sports car wasn’t a rental she was driving, it was her own car. She wasn’t superstitious by nature, but every good thing that had ever happened to her had happened when she was somewhere within the vicinity of the white sports car. It was, in effect, her good-luck talisman. And, as the embodiment of her good fortune, she wanted to keep it within her line of vision, ensuring that nothing could happen to it.
She intended on keeping an eye on it from inside the bar.
However, Connie quickly discovered that was an impossibility. For one thing, the bar’s windows didn’t face the rear lot.
Uneasy, she thought about reparking her car or coming back to Murphy’s later, after dinner.
But then she reminded herself that her car had a tracking chip embedded within the steering wheel. If her car was stolen, the police could easily lay hands on it within the hour.
Provided they knew about tracking chips and how to use them, she qualified silently. She took measure of the occupants within the bar as she walked in. The first thought that crossed her mind was that the people around her could never be mistaken for the participants in a think tank.
Still looking around, she made her way to the bar, intending on ordering a single-malt beer.
A deep male voice asked her, “What’ll it be?” when she reached the bar and slid onto a stool.
The voice sounded vaguely familiar, but she shrugged the thought away. She didn’t know anyone here. “What kind of beer do you have on tap?” she asked, continuing to take inventory of the room.
“Good beer.”
The answer had her looking at the bartender instead of the bar’s patrons. When she did, her mouth dropped open.
“You,” she said in stunned surprise.
“You,” Finn echoed, careful to hide his initial surprise at seeing her.
Unlike the woman seated at that bar, he’d had a couple of minutes to work through his surprise. It had spiked when he first saw her walk across the threshold. Disbelief had turned into mild surprise as he watched her make her way across the floor, weaving in and out between his regular patrons.
When she’d left the ranch this morning, he’d had a vague premonition that he would be seeing her again—but he hadn’t thought that it
