gone a lot. Out of town. Not available. Frankly, if he’d been paying more attention, the ranch wouldn’t be in the shape it’s in and—” He stopped himself. “Sorry. I’m just the foreman, not the boss.”
“Exactly. And you haven’t seen the books.” The spreadsheet was a study in red. “The only place we haven’t lost money is on the guests. I’m doing what has to be done. Be assured of that.”
She’d sounded pompous and that wouldn’t improve their rapport. “We can talk about all this later, Deck. For now, I can sure use your help.” She managed a smile. The man knew the ranch as well as she knew her Brooklyn apartment. “I’ll talk to Dad.”
“That would be wise.”
If she’d had hackles, they’d be on end and she’d be growling. Deck was so damn sure he was right, as if he’d already separated the chaff from the wheat, the worthwhile from the waste, and she should bow before his wisdom.
She opened her mouth to say, And who named you the Great and Powerful Oz? but was saved from making things worse by someone calling her name.
She turned. From the porch, a thin woman in a tie-dyed dress motioned wildly for her to come. “You’re here! Come in!” Had to be Dahlia. Callie was startled to notice how young she looked. Her father hadn’t mentioned that. “Get out of the sun before you wrinkle!” she called.
Callie waved.
“Watch out for her teas,” Deck said. “If she gives you a choice, take peppermint. The rest are nasty.” His eyes lit with the mischief she’d loved back then, like he’d let her in on a great secret. He tilted his hat, dove gray and worn, but perfect on his head. “Good to have you back.”
Instantly, she remembered that August night, her last before leaving for college. “Don’t go, Callie.” His voice had been rough with emotion. “Stay with me.” He’d been drunk, but his words seemed dredged from somewhere deep.
Did he remember? Or had he washed it from his mind? Probably. You had to protect yourself. Certainly he’d learned that, too. They’d had the lesson young, after all.
“Thanks, Deck,” she said. “It’s good to be back.” Sort of. She turned to go, feeling his eyes on her as she walked away. She tried not to wiggle on her flimsy heels.
The man was still sexy as hell. He made her nervous. He made her mad. He made her want him.
She hated that.
She turned her attention to Dahlia, who was dragging Callie’s suitcase up the porch stairs, while two guests looked on from the porch.
Callie rushed over. “I’ve got it. Thank you.” She had to yank the bag free of Dahlia’s grip. At the top, Callie nodded at the man and woman playing cards and drinking lemonade in faded wicker chairs.
Those would have to go. Callie would replace all the furniture and redo the porch for sure. A glance at the log facade told her she was right. A new stain and fresh trim in something trendy—say, umber?—would do just fine.
The pots of flowers on either side of the door were new and bright. Dahlia’s touch, she’d bet. The woman created beauty products and ointments from desert plants. Callie had said she’d consider them for the ranch’s new spa.
Once they were inside, Dahlia yanked Callie into a bruising hug, then looked her over with bird-bright eyes. “I’m so, so glad to meet you.” She smelled pleasantly herbal. If that was a sample of her creams, Callie liked it so far.
“I’m glad to meet you, too, Dahlia.”
“You’re as lovely as your pictures.” Dahlia examined her face like an aesthetician with the blackhead remover. “I have the remedy for the bags under your eyes. In fact…” She hurried to the registration counter to grab a large cellophane-wrapped basket, which she thrust into Callie’s arms.
“My gift to you. One of everything. Face cream, body lotion, shampoo, conditioner, masque.” She tapped each jar or tube as she named it. “I can’t wait to work with you.”
“I’ll try them out and we’ll go from there. And my dad…?”
“Catching his siesta. He gets so weary.” Her father was a youthful fifty. She’d made him sound like a fragile old man. Close up, Dahlia looked midthirties, not that much younger. “I have tea steeping for us.” Dahlia gestured toward the tucked-away Cummings family kitchen.
“Let me put my things away and check on Dad,” Callie said, starting for the stairs with the overloaded basket of Dahlia’s Desert Delights. She shifted her suitcase to one side so a couple and their young daughter could head down the stairs. They were chatting happily. When Callie was finished, the place would be lively with guests year-round.
DECK HELD his shit-eating grin in case Callie glanced his way again. She thought he was a smug asshole. No point in disappointing her. She wiggled away in her all-wrong outfit, her heels so fragile they’d snap in a knothole. She was too busy wrestling Dahlia for her bag to look back.
No surprise.
Meanwhile, Deck still reeled from the brain buzz and flood of lust he got whenever he saw her. When the ranch house door closed, he rested his forehead against Brandy’s neck and blew out a breath.
What was it about her? No other woman gave him the thud in the chest, the hot knot in his gut, the below-belt ache. She was the first, the one that got away. Maybe that was it.
All she had to do was say his name, and his pulse kicked like a riled horse. Then he never failed to act like a dick. Which was why he avoided her when she was home. At least he hadn’t let on how much he still wanted her.
Did she still want him? Unlikely. She got nervous and defensive around him, but Callie never looked back. She’d left Abrazo for Manhattan like she’d staged a prison break.
Brandy whinnied, so he led her a few yards into the corral with a firm hand, talking low. “Easy, girl. Settle. Steady does it.” No way would the horse be ready for the sunset ride Cal had planned with Dahlia and Callie.
Deck usually bought all the horses for the Triple C, but Cal hadn’t asked his advice on this spirited filly, which would be perfect for Callie, if she hadn’t stopped riding back in seventh grade. Her horse, Lucky, died and broke her heart, though she would never admit that was the reason.
He trotted Brandy around the corral until she managed an easy lope, beginning to trust him. He led her out of the corral, closed the gate and took her for a quick ride across the rolling pasture before he brought her back to her stall and rewarded her with some oats. “Wish I could stay, but I have business inside,” he said with a sigh.
He had to tell Cal Brandy wasn’t ready, which meant another run-in with Callie. Deck needed to remind Cal of the planning and zoning hearing tonight, too—they both sat on the commission.
Taylor Loft, the police chief, was buttonholing commissioners to push through a tax exemption that coincidentally would save him thousands, since he’d started moonlighting as a developer. His father had been a decent chief, but Loft was a manipulative opportunist, who pissed Deck off every time he ran into him.
Because Callie went back to him? Could Deck be that small? With Callie around,
