do it,” said Susan.
“Yeah, right.”
“Why not?”
Melissa swiveled to face her coworker. “Because Seth turned me down flat.”
Susan shrugged. “Tell him you’re doing City Hall research from home. Then get on a plane.”
Oh, now that seemed brilliant. “Lie to my boss and ignore his orders?”
“He’ll forgive you if you get the story.” Susan’s lips curved in a conspiratorial grin. “Trust me.”
Melissa let the hair slip out of her hand. The idea was preposterous.
Susan leaned in and lowered her voice. “If you don’t get the story, somebody else will.”
“At least it won’t be Brandon.”
“Result will be the same.”
“Flying to Montana could get me fired,” Melissa pointed out.
“It could also get you promoted.” Susan straightened.
“Easy for you to say.”
Susan shrugged the cameras into a more comfortable position, then adjusted her cap. “Up to you. But no risk, no reward. My biggest payday was when those vandals let the lions loose at Lincoln Park.”
“That was insane,” Melissa reminded her. Susan had been clinging to the branches of an oak tree with a hungry male lion pacing below when the animal-control officer had darted the thing.
Another shrug.
“Are you suggesting that if I don’t put myself in mortal danger, I’m not trying hard enough?”
Susan patted Melissa’s shoulder. “I’m suggesting if you don’t torpedo Brandon and go after that promotion, you’re not trying hard enough.”
Point made, Susan winked and sauntered away, while Melissa drummed her fingertips on the desktop.
She glanced at the pictures of the Montana ranch. Then her gaze shifted to the spacious window cubicle reserved for the new feature writer.
She pictured Seth’s expression when she presented the article. She pictured Brandon’s face when he learned of her coup. She pictured her byline on the cover of the Bizz. Then just for good measure, she pictured herself at the podium, accepting a Prentice award next January. She could wear her black-and-gold-layered gown, with the teardrop medallion she’d found last week in that funky little art gallery on Second.
Take that, Brandon Langard.
Her life would be perfect. All she had to do was talk her way onto the Ryder Ranch.
Body loose in the saddle, Jared Ryder held his horse Tango to a slow walk across the wooden bridge that led to his sister Stephanie’s place. Her jumping-horse outfit was built on Ryder land up on the Bonaparte Plateau, about ten miles into the hills from the main spread at Spirit Lake. Tango’s ears twitched and his body tensed as he took in the nearly hundred head of horses grazing in the fields and milling about in the pens clustered around the main riding arena.
Jared was feeling just as twitchy as his horse. Far from the haven he’d always known, the familiar sights and sounds of Montana brought a crush of memories. And a fresh surge of anger roiled in his belly.
His instinct had been to stay far away from the ranch this week. But his sister, Stephanie, needed him. Besides, Chicago had its own problems at the moment.
Ryder International had just signed a long-term lease to rent space to the City of Chicago in the Ryder office tower that was under construction on Washington Street. For some reason, the mayor had insisted on parading Jared from charity ball to art gallery opening. Jared had been out in public so often that the tabloids started to believe there was a reason to take his picture and stuff a microphone in his face.
It was beyond frustrating. He was a businessman, not a politician or a celebrity. And his personal life was none of their damn business. The reporter from Windy City Bizz camping out at the end of his driveway Monday night was the last straw. When he got back to the city, he was looking into restraining orders and disguises.
But for the moment he had no choice but to come to terms with the home front. He cleared the main equestrian barn, and a cluster of people on horseback at the riding arena came into view. His appearance caught their attention. One horse and rider immediately broke free from the group, trotting down the dirt road to meet him. Both Jared and Tango tracked the pair’s progress past the pens, dotted outbuildings and sparse trees.
“The prodigal returns,” sang his twenty-two-year-old sister, Stephanie, pulling her mare to a halt, raising a cloud of dust in the July sunshine. Her smiling, freckle-flecked face peeked out from her riding helmet. Her long legs were clad in tight jodhpurs and high, glossy brown boots, while a loose, tan blouse ballooned around her small frame. Her unruly auburn hair was tied back in a ponytail.
“I think you’re confusing me with Royce,” said Jared, watching her closely. She might not know what he knew, but they’d all been shaken by their grandfather’s death three months ago.
He halted Tango, who eyed the mare with suspicion.
“At least Royce makes it to my competitions,” Stephanie pointed out, shifting in her stirrups. “He was there to watch me win last week at Spruce Meadows.”
“That’s because he lives on his jet plane,” Jared defended. His brother, Royce, routinely flew from New York to London, Rome and points east, checking out companies to add to the Ryder International empire. Royce was mobile.
“I live in a boardroom,” Jared finished.
“Poor baby,” Stephanie teased. She smiled, but Jared caught the veiled sadness in her silver-blue eyes. Stephanie had been only two when their parents died, and Gramps was the closest thing to a parent she’d known.
“Congratulations,” he told her softly, reflexively tamping down his own anger to focus on her needs. He’d been fifteen when they lost their parents, and he liked to think he’d had a hand in raising her, too. He was immensely proud of her accomplishments as both a rider and a trainer.
“Thanks.” She leaned forward to pat Rosie-Jo, her champion gray Hanoverian, briskly on the neck, but not before Jared caught the telltale sheen in her eyes. “Want to see our trophy?”
“Of course,” he answered. There would be plenty of time later to talk about their grandfather.
“We’ve got a few hours before the meeting.” She drew a brave breath and squared her shoulders, shaking off the sadness as she turned the horse to draw alongside Jared.
Together they headed toward her two-story blue-gabled ranch house.
The annual meeting of the Genevieve Memorial Fund, a charitable trust named in memory of their mother, would take place today. Each year, it was scheduled to coincide with the anniversary of their parents’ deaths. Picturing his parents, Jared felt his anger percolating once more. But he had to suck it up, be a man about it. There was absolutely no point in disillusioning his younger
