“But you’re here, not there.”
“I am,” she agreed. “Is Miranda expecting you?”
“Not unless she’s a mind reader.”
“You should have called her,” she said.
“Why?”
“Because if you plan to stay here, it isn’t going to work out.”
CHAPTER THREE
“LIKE HELL IT WON’T work out,” Jordan said through gritted teeth.
Shae tore her fascinated gaze away from his scars and met his eyes. This was bad in so many ways that she couldn’t begin to count them. Jordan, the long-lost stepson—the reason Miranda couldn’t sell the property in the first place as she’d wanted to—showed up now? Why? And where on earth had he been? Judging from his injuries, wherever it was, it hadn’t exactly been pleasant.
“What happened to you?” she asked in a low voice, figuring there was no reason to pretend he hadn’t changed since the last time she’d seen him.
She had a feeling he was going to say something smart-ass such as, “Cut myself shaving,” but instead he said simply, “Explosion.”
“Must have been bad.” Her gaze drifted back to the scarred part of his face and then on to his damaged ear.
“Worse than you can imagine.”
His emphasis led Shae to think she’d probably been insulted, but she didn’t much care. Scars aside, Shae had forgotten how fierce Jordan Bryan could look when crossed. She’d only crossed him once back when they’d been in rodeo, and that once had been enough. Flirtation had been wasted on the man. The one time she’d tried...well, she’d never bothered trying again.
“What are you doing here?” he repeated.
“I have a contract to work on the place.”
“Why would you be working on my place?”
“Your place?”
“Shit.” He rubbed his injured hand over his face again and Shae couldn’t help staring at it, her insides clenching at the sight of the twisted, shiny skin. She hoped no signs of disgust crossed her face, but she couldn’t be certain. At the moment she was having a difficult time processing everything—the man, the injuries, the possible consequences to her employment contract.
“She’s at the ranch?” he asked abruptly.
Shae swallowed and met his eyes. Deep blue eyes, filled with cold, cold anger. “Miranda? I don’t know.”
He turned without another word and walked out the door, the curly white dog trotting daintily behind him. An odd picture, but Shae was in no mood to reflect on why a guy like Jordan Bryan would be here with a poodle. She stayed where she was, next to the map tubes she’d placed on the dusty oak table, watching through the open door until she saw Jordan disappear down the road.
Once she was certain he was gone, Shae stepped out onto the porch, squeezing her forehead with one hand to stave off the headache that was starting to build. The prodigal had returned at the most inopportune moment and it appeared that Miranda was in for one hell of a rude awakening.
She couldn’t let that happen. Not if she wanted to keep her job.
Shae went back into the house and picked up her backpack, leaving the map tubes where they lay. There was no way she’d be able to reach her car before Jordan reached his, but she could follow a few miles behind him to the highway and call Miranda once she got into cell-phone range. She needed to warn her boss that trouble was coming.
* * *
BLOOD POUNDED IN Jordan’s temples as he stalked down the rutted road, barely aware of Clyde struggling to keep up with his long strides. The Subaru keys were in his hand, held so tightly that he was pretty damned certain there’d be a permanent imprint in his palm, but he didn’t relax his grip.
Miranda Bryan had just officially screwed with his life once too often and she was going to be one sorry woman when he caught up with her. He swallowed drily as he rounded the last corner before the windfall. Just a few more minutes to the car, then forty-five minutes to the ranch. Once there he knew exactly what he was going to do. He was going to throttle her.
Oh, damn, yeah. He was going to put his hands around her neck and— Jordan exhaled sharply, feeling his short nails dig even deeper into his palm —go to jail for assault, no doubt, once her henchmen pulled him off her.
That would solve everything—for her.
Shit. What was he doing, heading off half-cocked like this, blinded by rage? More than that, what was he thinking? Throttling Miranda wasn’t the answer. Nor was having a shouting match with her at the ranch, where she could have him arrested for trespassing.
Jordan forced himself to stop in the middle of the narrow road and release the death grip on the keys. Slowly his cramped fingers obeyed. And then he drew in a long breath and exhaled again as his head bent forward and he pressed his injured hand against his forehead.
Think. Think hard. Don’t let her gain control.
The ranch was his. Miranda hadn’t inherited her husband’s share of the common tenancy Jordan had shared with his father and he had the papers to prove it. He’d been the sole heir of the High Camp. So what the hell? Something was very wrong here.
Was she actively working on his ranch because she was so certain he was never coming back?
Was she that ballsy?
A definite yes to the latter, as he knew from personal experience, but Miranda was also careful, which concerned him.
No, it chilled him. Miranda did not leave i’s undotted and t’s uncrossed. If she was working on the High Camp, she felt safe doing so, and Jordan needed to find out why. And he had to be careful as to how he did it.
He crouched down and stroked the dog’s curly head, the corners of his mouth lifting in spite of himself as the poodle laid his chin on Jordan’s knee and stared up at him, his expression clearly indicating that he didn’t know what was going on, but whatever it was, he had Jordan’s back.
Jordan scooped the dog up and stood, holding the sturdy little animal to his chest, feeling better knowing he was not alone. Miranda was not taking over his property as she’d taken over everything else Jordan held dear. But before he did anything, he needed to find out what in the hell was going on. He could think of only one person who could help him—if the guy was still alive.
* * *
“IS MIRANDA AT THE RANCH?” Shae demanded the second time the guest-ranch receptionist, who’d identified herself as Ashley, tried to put her off. “Because this is an emergency and I need to talk to her.”
“What kind of emergency?” Ashley asked in an ultraefficient tone that made Shae want to shake her.
“The kind where you’ll get fired if you don’t let Miranda know I’m on the phone. Now!”
“I don’t know where she is,” the girl snapped. She abruptly stopped, as if hearing the tone she’d been taking, and when she spoke again, she was once more the picture of überefficiency. Miranda, unfortunately, trained her help well. “Her car is here,” Ashley said, “but she’s not in the house. Sometimes she goes riding with the guests.”
“Call her cell.”
“The trails are no-cell zones,” the girl said primly.
“Is there a manager? Someone I can talk to?”
“The housekeeper. Everyone else is out working.”
Shae glanced at her watch. She’d be there in half an hour. She figured Jordan was at least fifteen