“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 minutes ahead of her.
“Look. There’s a guy who might show up. Her stepson. And he’s not in a good mood. If I were you, I’d tell him that Miranda isn’t there. You got that? Miranda isn’t there.”
“But if he’s her stepson—”
“They don’t get along,” Shae said from between gritted teeth. “If you see Miranda before I get there, have her call me. Shae. And you might tell the manager or any other burly guys hanging around that there could be trouble. Understand?”
“Y-yes.”
Finally she’d gotten through. “Thank you.” Shae punched the end button and dropped the phone onto the console, pressing down on the accelerator, hoping she’d done the right thing. If Jordan showed up and was the picture of politeness, she was going to look stupid, but somehow she didn’t see that happening. Not if he was in the same temper he’d been in when he’d abruptly left the ranch house.
So what was she going to do once she arrived at the ranch?
As if she had a clear idea. It wasn’t that she particularly liked Miranda, but she didn’t want to see her ambushed.
And you don’t want the chance to get back your job screwed up.
Yeah. That, too.
So whatever was going down, she wanted to do what she could to salvage the situation. She just hoped she somehow got there before Jordan and didn’t walk in on a battle royal.
* * *
THE WEATHERED SHINGLE identifying Emery Anderson as an attorney-at-law still hung beneath the beat-up mailbox on Pole Line Road, five miles from the Cedar Creek Ranch. Jordan parked next to a late-model pickup truck and cracked the windows open so that Clyde could get some air while he talked with his father’s lawyer and friend.
Or at least he’d been a friend until Miranda entered the scene.
Miranda hadn’t liked Hank to spend too much time with people other than herself. Jordan’s mouth thinned as he opened the rear door and pulled out the small lockbox. He slammed the door shut and was heading toward the walk when the door opened and an older man stepped out onto the porch. Emery wasn’t dead, but his deeply lined face indicated that he’d lived every one of his seventy-nine years. His hair had thinned to practically nothing and he’d lost at least fifteen pounds since the last time Jordan had seen him, but his white handlebar mustache was as gloriously full and carefully groomed as always.
For a moment the two men simply stared at one another, and then Emery, his face screwed up into an expression of concern, said in his raspy voice, “You look like hell, Jordan.”
“Time has not been kind to you, either.”
A slow smile spread over the man’s face, almost but not quite masking the deep concern in his eyes. “Well, why are you standing there? Come on the hell into the house. I have cold beer.”
“I don’t drink anymore,” Jordan said as he tucked the lockbox under his arm and started for the gate. “Alcohol interacts with pain drugs, so I just quit.”
“Tea, then.”
Five minutes later Jordan had a jar of iced tea in front of him and was stirring sugar into the bitter brew. “Iced tea’s not supposed to be this strong,” he muttered as Emery read over the inheritance documents Jordan had given him, letting out an occasional snort.
“Don’t be a sissy,” Emery replied absently. He hadn’t asked about the accident, had barely acknowledged Jordan’s injuries other than telling him he looked like hell. And Jordan was thankful. He was tired of having the accident define him, tired of living the aftermath.
Emery gave one final snort and when he raised his eyes, Jordan instantly knew he’d been hosed. “How’d she do it and how bad is it?”
“It’s just a guess,” Emery said, scooting closer to Jordan so that he could point to a clause in the document. “But you see here where it says that while you’ve inherited Hank’s share of the common tenancy, all the leases will be honored?”
“That’s what it says?” He wasn’t stupid, but legalese was damned hard to follow, using twenty-five words to say what five could.
“Yeah. And my guess is that Miranda must have inherited Hank’s farm lease on the place.”
“Great,” Jordan said flatly. The lease had been made to protect Hank’s farming operations on the land they shared, and it’d only been made in case something happened to Jordan and Becky inherited.
“That makes no sense,” Jordan said, looking up from his drink. “What does she want with a farm lease? She encouraged Dad to stop farming our place when the guest ranch took off. I think they only raise enough hay to feed the livestock now.”
Emery shrugged. “Probably to keep you away from the place. It isn’t like you two got along.”
“No. She hates me.” And he returned the sentiment with enthusiasm.
“So you come back from the service—” Emery’s gaze lingered on Jordan’s injured hand for a moment “—plan to take up residency and, surprise, even if Hank were still alive, Miranda controls the operations on the land. Just another way to stick it to you.”
“Dad wouldn’t have let her do anything to me.”
“Not while he was alive.” Emery’s voice softened. “But he was sick off and on, you know.”
“I know. But why have her inherit the lease? Why screw me over?”
“He may not have known. It could have been one small clause in a new will he signed. Or it may not have happened at all.”
“No. Miranda wouldn’t do something without covering her butt legally—especially if I’m involved.” Jordan pushed the tea aside and pulled the box toward him. Pulling out another paper, he handed it to Emery. “The tenancy agreement.”
“I know this conveyance,” Emery said, unfolding the document. “I wrote it.” He skimmed it anyway before saying, “Standard tenancy in common. You and your dad owned the property equally. You both have—or, rather, had—the right to lease, rent or sell your half. Upon sale of the entire property, the proceeds are to be split evenly, which no longer matters since you inherited Hank’s part of the land.” Emery twisted one corner of his thick white mustache. “Do have a copy of the lease in that magic box of yours?”
“Yeah.”
“I didn’t write this agreement,” Emery said as he took the folded paper from Jordan. “Lucy was sick then.”
“I remember,” Jordan said. Emery’s wife had died not too long afterward, sending Emery into a tailspin. “That paralegal that hooked up with Lucy’s nurse wrote it.”
“Wonderful fellow, young Jasper.”
“Lucy’s nurse seemed to think so.”
“But her husband didn’t.” Emery scanned the paper. “Fairly straightforward. Hank leased the meadows and fields for operations. He had rights