Callie wants to take it down a notch,” Deck replied.
“Would you two please not talk like I’m not here,” she said, trying to act amused instead of annoyed. “I know exactly what notch I’m on and how long I want to be there.” What the hell was she saying?
“I’ll meet you in the corral in an hour.” Deck tipped his hat to her. “Cal, we need you at the zoning meeting tonight. The vote will be tight.”
“Sure thing. I’ll be there.”
“’Night then,” Deck said and turned to leave.
Callie took in his departing backside, the jeans molded to his ass, one pocket worn from his wallet. His boots made his walk loose and slow and he’d grown broader. Eleven years ago, he’d been a boy. Now he was all man.
“Callie?”
“Huh?” She jerked her head to Dahlia, who must have said something to her she missed.
“I said, honey in your tea?”
“Sure, sure,” she said, sitting down, gathering her wits.
Dahlia handed her a mug and Callie caught a whiff of peppermint. The good tea, according to Deck. With honey, it wasn’t half-bad. He’d been right about that.
“Anyway, I’m so glad you’re taking this pressure from your father’s shoulders,” Dahlia said to Callie. She squeezed Callie’s father’s hand on the table. “This place has aged him.”
“Is that true, Dad?” Callie asked. “Is the ranch too much for you?” Had he hidden that from her, too?
“The Triple C will always be home. I need time for more now, that’s all.” He patted Dahlia’s hand and the woman blushed. “Dahlia’s getting me out and about. We’d like to travel—see Europe and India. I’ve been stuck in a rut.” He looked into Dahlia’s eyes and she looked back in an equally moony way.
Callie glanced down, embarrassed. She sipped her tea, aware of the tingle of alarm fighting to get through the syrupy sweetness of the scene. Was she just a cynical New Yorker? She so wanted her father to be happy and well. She set her mug down with a clunk. The love birds startled and looked her way.
“So…” Dahlia said brightly, “Rancho de Descanso…what a great concept. As soon as you have your logo, we can make up labels with ‘Exclusive from Dahlia’s Desert Delights’ for the products. Do you have the design yet?”
“A graphics team is working on it right now, but—”
“Just let me know. We’ll want compatible designs and—”
“Let’s not overwhelm her, Dahlia,” her father said, putting his arm around Dahlia’s shoulder. “She barely got here.”
“I’m sorry. I’m just so thrilled.”
“Did you put in the flower pots outside?” Callie said to shift topics before the woman offered her a facial. “They really brighten up the entrance.”
“Yes. Some herbs I need for my tinctures and teas. My own garden is jammed to the netting.”
“What are the purple and pink flowers shaped like bells?”
“Those are foxglove. The small white ones are sweet woodruff. Both have healing uses. Western medicine relies on synthetic compounds to an alarming degree. It’s such a shame to ignore nature’s bounty.”
“I suppose it can seem that way.” She smiled, then caught her father’s gaze. They were both humoring Dahlia. “I should get upstairs and unpack and change, I guess, since I’m going for a ride.” She sighed.
“Rosalie put extra towels in your bathroom and a blanket for your bed,” her father said. “Holler if you need anything.”
At the second-floor landing, she paused to look down at the spectacular great room, where a middle-aged man read a paperback novel from the small ranch library.
Her mother’s classic taste stood the test of time. Raw beams and stone fireplaces were popular in the newer guest ranches. Callie would replace the worn furniture and add some contemporary art, but her mother’s choice of Navajo rugs, Tohono O’odham baskets and exquisite wood pieces still looked great. She’d keep the kerosene lighting, too, as a rustic touch.
Upstairs, Callie entered the pink-princess glory of her room with the usual knot in her chest. Her mother had been happy to create the girlie oasis of canopy bed and French provincial furniture Callie wanted. She never let Callie suffer for their choice to live in the boondocks.
The room was full of mementos—riding trophies, dried corsages, cheerleading photos and awards. The bureau still held the prom shot of her and Taylor—who’d recently gotten divorced, her father had mentioned. She could turn the room into a true guest room, but she knew her father would be upset by the change.
She picked up the candid of her mother and her at that last Halloween party. They were dressed as witches and they had their heads together laughing.
A bottomless ache came over Callie, making her sink to the bed. She hated this. It had been eleven years. Get over it.
Her mother could always find a reason to celebrate. She hosted parties and town events like crazy. Until the last one. Her mother had been returning from Phoenix, her car jammed with stuff for Callie’s eighteenth birthday bash, when she fell asleep on a lonely stretch of I-10.
As if that horror hadn’t been enough, Callie had read the newspaper story, where a witness vividly described the highway littered with foil banners, crepe paper, appetizers and paper plates. “It looked like a party had exploded on the road.” The words and the picture they drew remained branded in Callie’s brain.
To spare Callie’s feelings, they’d held the funeral two days after her birthday, but it hadn’t helped. She’d ignored her birthday ever after, avoided the subject with friends. No one knew, and she liked it that way.
Callie slipped the photo into the drawer—no point torturing herself—and opened her suitcase on the bed. Throwing open her closet door, she surveyed the fashion mistakes she’d left when she headed for college, including the ridiculously slutty dress Taylor had bought—sequined fake snakeskin she’d managed to only wear once. Her old jeans were there and the never-worn Stetson her dad had bought her to try to coax her back into riding.
Glancing at her watch, she decided to unpack later. Instead, she’d make a couple of quick calls. The first was to touch base with Finn Markham, head of Valhalla Investments, the company funding the resort, pinning down his visit to the property. She wanted to talk to him about possibly buying the riverside acres. The proceeds would offer a financial margin in case they took too long to turn the revenue corner. Raw land wasn’t as valuable as developed land, but it was an option worth considering.
Getting voice mail, she left a message, then took a calming breath before punching in the number to Be There Events, the company she and Stefan had built together.
“Hello, Callie,” he answered gravely. “How are you?”
“I’m great. Ready to dig in,” she said cheerfully, irritated by the drama in his tone. “How’s it going there?”
