He turned back to her and held out a set of keys. “There’s some paperwork, for sure. We should talk to Josh about how he fits into the mix. He and Trudy had big plans for the place. But you look like you could use a rest. Go check it out. We can meet again tomorrow morning.”
Tomorrow morning she’d be halfway to the Pacific Ocean. “What place?”
“Crimson Ranch,” he told her. “Miss Trudy’s property.” He jingled the keys.
Sara’s stomach lurched. “She left me a property?”
Before Crenshaw could answer, cool air tickled Sara’s ponytail. She turned as her mother, Rosemarie Wells, glided in with bottle-blond hair piled high on top of her regal head. A man followed in her wake, indiscriminately middle-aged, slicked-back salt-and-pepper hair, slight paunch and cowboy boots that looked custom-made. Sara assumed he was the latest in her mother’s long string of rich, powerful, jerk boyfriends.
Could this day get any worse?
Rose slanted Jason Crenshaw a dismissive glance then snapped her fingers at Sara. “We need to talk, Serena.”
Sara’s stomach lurched, but she focused on the attorney, snatching the keys out of his still-outstretched palm.
“May I help you?” he asked, his eyes a little dazed. Her mother had had that effect on men since Sara could remember. It had been at least two years since she’d seen her mother last, but Rose looked exactly the same as far as Sara could tell. Maybe with a few less wrinkles thanks to the wonders of modern plastic surgery.
“You can ignore her.” Sara bit at a cuticle.
“Serena, stop that obnoxious behavior.”
She nibbled harder. “This is kind of a coinkydink, Mom. You showing up now.” Sara locked eyes with her mother. Rose knew about the will, she realized in an instant.
Her mother’s gaze raked her. “You look like hell, Serena.”
“Stop calling me that. My name is Sara.” She narrowed her eyes but crossed her arms over her chest, suddenly conscious that she was wearing an ancient and not very supportive sports bra. “Sara Wells. The name you put on my birth certificate.”
Her mother’s large violet eyes rolled to the ceiling. “The name I had legally changed when you were eight.”
“I changed it back and you know it.” Sara took a step forward. “A monumental pain in the back end, by the way.” She cocked her head to one side. “Although it’s handy when collections comes calling.”
Her mother’s nose wrinkled. “I can help you with that, Serena.”
“Sara.”
Rose ignored her. “Richard wants to buy your grandmother’s property.” She tilted her head at the aging cowboy, who tipped his hat rim at Sara, Clint Eastwood style.
“I don’t understand why Gran left it to me.”
“To make things difficult for me, of course,” Rose said with an exaggerated sigh. She dabbed at the corner of her eye. “Mothers are supposed to look out for their children, not keep them from their rightful inheritance.”
Sara never could cry on cue. She envied her mother that.
“No matter. I know you’ve gotten yourself into another mess, Serena. A financial nightmare, really. We can fix that right now. Mr. Crenshaw, would you be so good as to draw up the paperwork?” She leveled a steely gaze at Sara. “I’m bailing you out again. Remember that.”
Rose had never helped Sara out of anything—contract negotiations, come-ons from slimy casting directors, defamatory tabloid headlines, a career slowly swirling down the drain. The only times in Sara’s life her mother had stepped in to help were when it benefited Rose at Sara’s expense.
“I’m not selling.”
“What?”
“Not yet. And not to you, Mother.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Rose darted a worried glance toward the cowboy, whose hands fisted in front of his oversize belt buckle. “What choice do you have?”
“I’m not sure.” Sara turned to the attorney. “Can you give me directions to the ranch?”
“I’ll write them down,” he said, and with obvious relief, disappeared into the back office.
“What kind of game are you playing?” Her mother pointed a French-tipped finger at Sara. “We both know you’re desperate for money. You don’t belong on that ranch.” Rose’s tone was laced with condescension. “She had no business leaving it to you.”
Decades of anger boiled to the surface in Sara. “She did, and maybe if you’d look in the mirror beyond the fake boobs and Botox you’d see why. Maybe she wanted to keep it out of your hot little hands.” She leaned closer. “Want to talk about that?”
Her mother recoiled for an instant, then straightened. “You don’t have a choice.”
“No.” Sara’s spine stiffened. “I didn’t have a choice when I was eight and begged you not to take me on another round of auditions. I didn’t have a choice when I was thirteen and I wanted to quit the show after the assistant director came on to me. I didn’t have a choice at seventeen when you checked me into rehab for exhaustion because the publicity would help the fans see me as an adult.”
“If you’d taken my advice, you wouldn’t be in the position you are now. I had your best interest at heart. Always.”
Sara laughed. Actually laughed out loud in her mother’s face. The statement was that absurd. “You tell yourself whatever you need to make it through the day. We both know the truth. Here’s the kicker. Right now I do have a choice.” She gripped the keys hard in her fist. “Stay away from me, Mother. Stay off of my property or I’ll have you hauled off to the local pokey.”
“You wouldn’t—”
Sara met her angry gaze. “Try me.”
She flicked a gaze at Jason Crenshaw, who’d returned to the office’s lobby. “I’ll be in touch,” she said and took the piece of paper he handed her. Without another glance at Rose, she reached for the door, but a large hand on her arm stopped her.
“You’re making a big mistake here, missy,” the aging Marlboro man told her, his voice a harsh rasp.
She shrugged out of his grasp. She’d been intimidated by far scarier men than this old coot. “What’s new?” she asked, and pushed out into the too-clean mountain air.
* * *
Josh Travers took a deep breath, letting the fresh air clear his muddled head. He’d been doing trail maintenance on the hiking path behind the main house for over three hours, moving logs to reinforce the bridge across a stream that ran between the two properties. His knee had begun throbbing about forty-five minutes into the job. Now it felt like someone had lit a match to his leg. Josh could tolerate the physical pain. What almost killed him was the way the ache radiated into his brain, making him remember why he was stuck here working himself to the point of exhaustion on a cool spring morning.
What he’d lost and left behind. Voices whispering he’d never get it back. The pain was a constant reminder of his monumental fall—both literal and figurative.
He turned toward the house and, for the first time, noticed a silver sedan parked out front. He didn’t recognize the car as any of the locals. He squinted and could just make out California plates.
Damn.
He thought of his daughter, Claire, alone in her bedroom, furiously texting friends from New York.
Double