Grant was damn grateful for Rufus’s silence on that subject.
He tipped his hat at the cowboys and left the barn. Out in the sun, Titan was waiting, hitched where he’d left him. He mounted up and got the hell out of there.
* * *
Grant rode Titan harder than he should have. He reached the resort in forty minutes. He turned the lathered horse over to the head groom and went up to the lodge. In his suite, he showered and changed into business clothes and went down the hill to the office complex.
Once he’d settled behind his desk, he called his assistant in. She gave him his messages, reminding him that he had an important dinner that night with two of the resort’s main backers.
He hadn’t forgotten. “Drinks in the Lounge at seven-thirty. Dinner at eight in the Gallatin Room. Right?”
She smiled and nodded. “You have some voice mail, too.”
“I’ll check it now.”
She left him. He played through his voice mail. Nothing urgent. He checked e-mail—or at least, he brought up his e-mail program and stared at the screen.
Really, though, all he saw was Steph. Her sweet, open face, smiling up at him, eyes shining with admiration and trust. And the way she’d looked Sunday, right after he kissed her, soft mouth red and swollen, eyes full of dreams…
Did she hate him now? Was she ever going to forgive him for the way he’d behaved, for selling off Clifton’s Pride when she was so happy there?
He tried to tell himself that maybe, if she hated him, that would be for the best. If she hated him, she’d stay clear of him. It would be a hell of a lot easier to keep his hands off her if she refused to come near him. She’d be safe from him.
He wanted that. He did. He wanted to…protect her from himself—and any other guys like him. From guys who didn’t want to get serious. Guys who would steal her tender innocence and then, in the end, walk away and leave her hurting.
The phone rang. He let his assistant answer, but took it when she buzzed him to tell him it was Caleb Douglas.
Since failing health had pretty much forced him to retire, Caleb was at loose ends a lot of the time. Grant listened to the old guy ramble on for a while before finally cutting the monologue short, saying he had a meeting he had to get to.
After the call from Caleb, he took calls from a tour packager and from Arletta Hall. In her fifties, Arletta owned a gift shop in town. She reminded him that he was expected to be at the big parking lot on the corner of North Main and Cedar Street the next day at 11:00 a.m. sharp.
He promised he’d be there, rigged out in the costume she’d dropped off at the concierge for him last Friday, ready to climb on the float and smile and wave his way down Main Street.
“Does it fit all right?” Arletta fussed. “It’s fine,” he replied automatically, though he’d yet to take it out of the box she’d delivered it in.
Arletta wanted him to know how pleased she was that he’d allowed her to take charge of the resort’s float. “Honored,” she declared. “I am honored. And those young people you sent to help me have done an excellent job. I think you’ll be pleased with the results.”
He thanked her for everything, but she kept on talking. About how well the float had turned out and how excited she was for him to see it, what a big day tomorrow was going to be, what with so many events planned.
“Truly, Grant, I believe this will be the most exciting Fourth of July our town has ever seen. Every hotel and motel is full, and the merchants are doing a record business—including Yours Truly, and I’m just pleased as punch about that, I don’t mind telling you. Why, we’re a boomtown all over again, aren’t we? And so much of it is due to you and the Douglases. That resort of yours has been a real shot in the arm to our economy. We get tourists year-round now…” She yammered on.
When she finally had to stop for a breath, he thanked her for her kind words and gently reminded her that it wasn’t his resort—and he really did have to go.
“Oh, well. I know, don’t I, how busy you are? I understand. No problem. No problem at all.”
“See you tomorrow, Arletta.”
“Don’t forget now. Eleven sharp.”
“I’ll be there.”
“In costume.”
“Yes. In costume.”
She finally said goodbye, just as his assistant buzzed to tell him that Eva Post had arrived.
“Send her in.”
“Grant. Hello.” A handsome woman of forty or so, Eva wore a trim gray pantsuit and bloodred lipstick. She carried one of those soft, oversize briefcases. Grant rose to greet her. They shook hands and he indicated one of the leather armchairs opposite his desk.
Eva sat and unzipped her briefcase. She pulled out a folder.
Grant saw that folder clutched in her slim hand with its long, red fingernails and something inside him rebelled.
Sternly he reminded himself of all the reasons he was selling. It made absolutely no sense for him to hold on to a ranch he didn’t need, a ranch that never more than broke even, a ranch that stood for the past when Grant was the kind of man who looked toward the future.
But those reasons? They didn’t mean squat.
It was no good. He couldn’t do it.
“Hold on,” he said.
She paused, the folder still in her hand, and sent him a baffled look. “Excuse me?”
“I’m sorry. I’ve changed my mind. I won’t be selling Clifton’s Pride, after all.”
Chapter Six
Eva Post stared at him as if he’d gone stark-raving out of his mind.
And damn it. Maybe he had.
She tried a laugh. “You’re joking.”
“No. I’m not.” What the hell? He couldn’t quite believe it himself. But still, it was true.
He couldn’t sell Clifton’s Pride. He just…couldn’t do it. Period. End of story.
Eva took a moment to collect herself. She set the folder on the edge of his desk and bent to prop her briefcase against her chair. Then she sat up straight again and folded her hands in her lap.
Cautiously she inquired, “Is there…something about this deal you’re not satisfied with? I assure you, Grant, the terms are exactly as we discussed.”
“It’s not the terms. The terms are fine. More than fair.”
“Well, then, what’s holding you back?”
He remembered the expression on Steph’s face just before he left her that day. She’d looked at him as if she didn’t know him at all—as if she didn’t care to know him.
That hurt. That really got to him. Steph’s respect meant a lot to him. It cut him to the core to think he’d lost it.
But losing Steph’s high regard wasn’t all of it.
He told Eva, “The offer was too good, really.”
She looked at him as if he made no sense at all. And when she spoke, her tone was patronizing. “Grant. Please. If the offer’s too good, why are you telling me you’re turning it down?”
“What I meant was, the offer was so good, I jumped at it without thinking it through, without stopping to realize that I really can’t sell.”
“Why