The Man Who Had Everything

“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 not?”

He’d said enough. He stood and held out his hand. “I apologize again for wasting your time.” In actuality, he hadn’t wasted all that much of Eva’s time. He hadn’t asked her to represent him until after Melanie had put the offer on the table. “But I’m not selling and that’s the end of it.”

Eva rose and they shook. He walked her to the door.

Before she went out, she turned and gave it one more try. “You have to realize that Ms. McFarlane is actively seeking the right property for her needs. If you don’t respond to this offer and she finds something else that suits her requirements—”

“Eva.” He almost smiled. “Why am I getting the feeling you still can’t believe I just changed my mind?”

She pursed that red, red mouth. “I doubt you’ll get this kind of deal from anyone else.”

“I’m sure I won’t. But the truth is, I wasn’t looking to sell in the first place. Melanie approached me.”

The realtor refused to believe he meant what he said. “This is a good deal. A terrific deal.”

“It sure is. But that doesn’t change the fact that I’m passing it up.”

An hour after Grant showed Eva out, Melanie McFarlane called. He knew he owed the woman some kind of explanation for backing out of their deal. Too bad he didn’t have one—nothing anyone else, particularly an eager and generous buyer, would understand.

Still, she deserved to hear it straight from his own mouth. He took the call.

Melanie wasted no time on idle chitchat. “My real estate agent talked to your real estate agent a few minutes ago. What’s going on, Grant? I thought we had a contract.”

He apologized for waffling on her and then told her what he’d told Eva: that he regretted any inconvenience he’d caused her, but he’d changed his mind.

Melanie McFarlane was a damned determined woman. “Change it back,” she said cheerfully in that brisk New England accent of hers. “What do you need with a ranch? You’ve got your hands full at the resort and you know it.”

“Sorry,” he said again. “I know I’ve inconvenienced you and I regret that. But I’m giving it to you straight here. I’m not selling.”

Melanie kept talking. “Your realtor implied there might be some chance you’ll be ready to sell, after all, in the near future.”

“My realtor, understandably, hates to lose a sale. But she’s mistaken. I won’t change my mind. And again, I apologize for this. I never should have told you I’d be willing to sell.”

“You’re serious. I can’t believe this.”

He did understand her disappointment. Clifton’s Pride would be a fine site for a guest ranch. It had a number of interesting, not-too-challenging trails, perfect for novice riders. It was picturesque, with varied terrain and spectacular mountain views. Most important, the ranch house and outbuildings were right off the main highway. To make a go of a guest ranch, access was key. Visitors needed to be able to get there with relative ease.

She demanded, “Is it the price?”

“No.”

“I can talk to my banker. I might be willing to up the offer, if that’s what it’s going to take.”

“I’m sorry. I’m not selling.”

A deadly silence. Then, “Until I find something else, the offer remains open. I like to think I have good instincts, and right now I have a feeling you’ll come to your senses—soon, I hope. When you do, let me know.” The line went dead.

Grant hung up and scrubbed his hands down his face. He hoped he hadn’t made an enemy of the McFarlane woman. In the resort business, a man did his best to get along with everyone. And she was a McFarlane. Her family owned the world-famous McFarlane Hotels.

No, he didn’t blame her for being furious with him. Hell. He was furious with himself. He should never have agreed to sell to her in the first place.

He buzzed his assistant and told her to send flowers and a fruit basket up to Melanie’s suite, rattling off another apology to go on the card.

After that, well, he hoped Melanie McFarlane would find another suitable property real damn soon and quit waiting around for him to change his mind.

Grant said good-night to the investor group at a little after eleven and went to his suite.

He started to change into an old pair of sweats, thinking he’d have a drink or two, watch the late news and hope that the alcohol would ease him to sleep. But then, what do you know?

He ended up reaching for his Wranglers instead.

The stables were closed at that time of night. He could have dragged the head groom from sleep with a call. There were, after all, certain privileges that went with being the boss—among them, the right to inconvenience the help.

But as much as the idea of a midnight horseback ride appealed to his troubled mind right then, the Range Rover was faster. And he didn’t have to wake anybody to get to it, since it was always ready and waiting in his private space in the main lodge’s underground garage.

He made it to the ranch house in twenty minutes flat, pulling into the circular dirt driveway, cutting his engine and dousing the headlights as he rolled up opposite the porch.

For a minute or two, he just sat there, staring at the darkened house where he’d grown up, at the small pool of brightness cast by the porch light, at the bugs recklessly hurling themselves against the bare bulb beneath the plain tin fixture. Bart appeared from the shadows at the end of the porch, tail wagging, sniffing the air in a hopeful way. Never had been much of a guard dog, that mutt.

Grant got out of the vehicle. He shut the car door as quietly as he could and went to sit on the steps with the old dog. Bart sniffed at him a bit and then flopped down beside him, yawning hugely and resting his head on his front paws with a low, contented whine. Grant petted the dog as he pondered what exactly he hoped to accomplish, showing up there in the middle of the night when the house was shut up tight and all sane ranch folk were sound asleep in their beds.

Rufus emerged from the bunkhouse across the yard, long johns showing up ghostly white through the shadows, the dark length of a shotgun visible in his right hand. Grant gave him a wave. After a second or two, Rufus waved in return and went back inside.

More time went by. Five minutes? Ten? Grant didn’t bother to check his watch. He just sat there with Bart, his arms looped around his spread knees, knowing that eventually the door behind him would open and a soft, husky voice would ask him what he was doing there.

It happened, finally: the click of the lock and the soft creak of the door as she pulled it inward. Then another, louder creaking as she came through the screen. She shut it with care. Bare feet brushing lightly on the porch boards, she approached and sat beside him.

He didn’t look at her. Not at first. There was her scent on the night and the warmth of her body next to his. It was more than enough.

She spoke first. “So…what’s up?”

He looked down at her slender feet. “You forgot your slippers.”

She made a small sound. It might have been a chuckle. Then she said, “Mom lectured me.”

“For what?”

“She told me I was too hard on you. She said Clifton’s Pride is your place to sell as you see fit, that you’ve always been so good to us and I should be more grateful.”

He shrugged, looking out at the night again, listening to the long, lost wail of a lone coyote somewhere out there in the dark. On his other side, Bart stirred, woofed softly, then dropped his head back on his paws again. “You tell her how I laid you down on that blanket and kissed you—how I almost did a whole lot more than just kissing?”

She made a sound that could only be called a snort. “Oh, please. She’s my mom. Some things a mom doesn’t need to know—and besides, Grant Clifton, you weren’t the only one doing the kissing. You weren’t the only one who wanted to do a whole lot more.”

He looked at her then. So beautiful, it pierced him right to the core, her gold hair tangled, eyes a little droopy from sleep, wearing an old sweater over a skimpy pajama top, and wrinkled pajama bottoms printed with sunflowers. “Feisty,” he said.

She snorted again. “I am not—and never have been—feisty.”

“Right.”

“Next you’ll be calling me spunky.”

“Never.”

“You call me spunky, I’m out of here.”

“I won’t call you spunky. Ever.” He raised a hand, palm out. “I swear it.”

“See that you don’t—and I guess I might as well tell you the rest of what Mom said.”

He looked out at the dark yard again. “Guess you might as well.”

“She said she can see how it would be hard for you to tell us how you’re selling the ranch, because you care about us and you don’t want us hurting and you know how much we’ve loved being here. Mom says I should look in my heart and find a little kindness and understanding there. And you know what?” She waited till he turned his gaze her way and arched a brow. “Now I’ve had a little time to stew over it, I think Mom’s right. I really hate when that happens.”

He wanted to touch her—to reach out and smooth her hair, maybe guide a few wild strands behind her ear, to brush her cheek with the back of his hand.

But he didn’t. He knew one touch would never be enough.

She said, “See, all I’ve ever wanted is my own ranch to run. I kind of let myself forget that this place isn’t mine, you know?”

“I know.”

“So…forgive me for being so thoughtless and cruel to you?” She stuck out a hand. “Shake on it.”

He took her hand. Mistake. Because then, he couldn’t stop himself from turning it over and pressing a kiss in the warm, callused heart of her palm.

“Oh, Grant…” she whispered on an indrawn breath.

He made himself release her. It was a real hard thing to do. “There’s nothing to forgive.”

“Oh. See, now. Of course, you would say that.”

“I’m not just saying it. It’s the truth.”

She started arguing. “But—”

“Wait.”

“What?”

“Steph…” He sought the words—and found them, somehow. “I’m never going to be…the right guy for you. Whatever we might have together, it wouldn’t be a forever kind of thing. I just…don’t want that.”

“That?” She looked confused.

He elaborated, “I don’t want marriage. Kids. All that. I’m not…my dad, you know?”

“I never thought you were.”

“What I mean is, I’m not like him. I’m not…the salt of the earth. Not a family man. What I want, it’s not what you want. When I was a kid, I thought it was. I told myself all I needed in life was a chance to walk in my dad’s big, muddy boots. But that was a lie. A lie to please him—and to please me, too, I suppose. Because I loved him and wished I could be like him. Because the world is built on men like him.”

“He was a fine man.”

“Yeah. The best. But I’m not him and I never will be. I’m…restless inside, you know? I want to be out there, mixing it up, meeting new people, making things happen. I always knew, deep down, that I had more talent for business than for running cattle. I loved every minute of business school—the whole time telling myself and my dad that I planned to use what I’d learned to help keep Clifton’s Pride in the black. But what I really wanted, what I dreamed of, is what I have now. I like the fast life. I like the progress a few around these parts hate. I enjoy my designer suits and high-powered meetings. I like making money. I like being single. And I plan to stay that way.”

She considered his words, her elbow braced on her knee and her chin cradled on her hand. Then she nodded. “Okay.”

It was a damn sight removed from what he’d expected her to say. “Okay?” he demanded. “That’s all. Okay?”

“Yeah,” she said, with another strong nod. “Okay. I don’t want you to be anybody you don’t want to be. And don’t assume you know what I want. I might end up surprising you.”

He had a very scary feeling she just might. And he wanted to kiss her. Damned if he didn’t always want to kiss her lately. Kiss her, and a whole lot more.

“So we understand each other, then?” he asked, thinking that he didn’t understand a thing.

“You bet.”

“And I’ve got to go.” Because if I don’t, I’m going to lay you down right here on the front porch, take off that sweater and that tiny little top and those sunflower pj’s and finish what I started this afternoon…

“See you tomorrow, then,” she said, with just a hint of a smile in the corners of that mouth he was aching to kiss.

He stood and started walking, putting her behind him where she couldn’t see the bulge at the zipper of his jeans. He got in the Range Rover and started it up, leaning out the window before he drove away.

By then, she stood on the top step, arms wrapped around herself, looking so sweet and pretty, it took all the will he possessed not to jump down from the car again and grab her tight in his arms.

“I changed my mind,” he said over the low rumble of the engine.

She grinned wide. “What? You mean you’re going to come back here and kiss me, after all?”

Her words sent another bolt of heat straight to his groin. “Don’t tempt me.”

“Oh, get over yourself.”

He told her then, flat out. “I turned down that offer. I’m not selling Clifton’s Pride.”

She gasped then. And she looked at him with such hope. With such gratitude and joy. Like he was Santa come with Christmas on the Fourth of July. “You’re serious.”

“As a bad case of hoof and mouth.”

“Oh, Grant. Are you sure?”

“I am.”

She shut her eyes, sucked in a long breath, and then asked, as if it pained her to do it, “It’s not… because of how mean I was to you, not because of the hard things I said about turning Clifton’s Pride into a dude ranch?”

He answered truthfully. “That was part of it, yeah. But not all. I don’t know exactly why I changed my mind. I just know that, when it came time to sign on the dotted line, I couldn’t do it.”

She hugged herself tighter, rubbing her arms against the nighttime chill. “I’m glad. It’s selfish and I know it. But, Grant, I’m so glad.”

He found himself wishing he could be the man for her. That man would be one lucky sonofagun. And he was going to hate that man when he started coming around. He’d be hard-pressed not to beat the poor guy to a bloody pulp just for living, just for being what Grant could never be.

He brought it back around to business. “You said you could make this place turn a profit. Rufus seems to think you can, too.”

“It’ll take time. But, yeah. I’m gonna do it. You just watch me.”

“Oh, I will.” He put the Range Rover in gear and drove away, sticking a hand out the window to give her a last wave, watching her in his rearview mirror as he rolled around the circle and headed for the highway.

During the drive back to the resort, he almost let himself wonder, what their lives might have been…

If things had gone on the way they’d started out. If the Julens still owned the Triple J and Grant still worked Clifton’s Pride at his father’s side. If Marie and Grant’s mom still sat at the kitchen table together in the long summer afternoons.

If Andre Julen and John Clifton hadn’t been murdered in cold blood out by the Callister Breaks nine years ago.

Chapter Seven

The dream was always the same—and much too real. It was like living that dark day all over again.

It started with Grant and Steph on horseback, just the way it had been that Saturday in September almost nine years ago. It was well past noon, the sun arcing toward the western mountains. Well past noon and cool out, rain on the way, clouds boiling up ahead of them to the northeast, rolling on down from Canada.

Steph, on Malomar, her hat down her back and her pigtails tied with green ribbons, was babbling away about how much she hated school. Grant rode along in silence, almost wishing he was twelve again like the mouthy kid beside him. Twelve. Oh, yeah, with years of the school she so despised ahead of him.

He’d graduated from UM the year before. He was a rancher full-time now. And he had an ache inside him, an ache that got worse every day. He missed the excitement and challenge of being out among other people more, of rubbing elbows with the rest of the world.

Steph stopped babbling long enough that he turned to look at her.

“You didn’t hear a word I said,” she accused.

“Sure I did.”

“Repeat it to me.”

“Don’t be a snot. I got your meaning. It’s not like I haven’t heard it a hundred times before. You hate school, but your dad and mom want you to go, to be with other kids, get yourself a little social interaction, learn to get along with different folks. But you’d rather be driving the yearlings to market. You’d eat dust, working the drag gladly, if only your folks would give you a break and your mom would homeschool you, so you could spend more time on a horse.”

“I’m not a snot.” She laid on the preteen nobility good and heavy. “And I am so sorry to bore you.”

“Steph. Don’t sulk, okay?”

“Oh, fine.” She was a good-natured kid at heart and couldn’t ever hold on to a pout all that long. She flipped a braid back over her shoulder and sent him a grin. “And okay. I guess you were listening. Pretty much.” She pointed at the rising black clouds. “Storm coming.”

“Oh, yeah.” The wind held that metallic smell of bad weather on the way.

Ahead, erupting from the rolling prairie, a series of sharp outcroppings appeared: the Callister Breaks, a kind of minibadlands, an ancient fault area of sharp-faced low cliffs, dry ravines and gullies. The Breaks lay half on Clifton’s Pride and half on the Triple J.

“Wonder what they’re up to?” Steph asked no one in particular. “They should have been home hours ago…”

Their dads had headed out together at daybreak from the Clifton place to check on the mineral barrels in the most distant pastures. They took one of the Clifton pickups, the bed packed with halved fifty-gallon drums filled with a molasses-sweetened mineral supplement that the cattle lapped up.

The two men had said they’d be back at the Clifton house by noon. It was almost three now…

Grant and Steph rode on as the sky grew darker.

“We don’t come up on them soon,” Grant said as they crested a rise, “we’ll have to head back or take cover.”

And that was when Steph pointed. “Look…”

Down there in the next ravine was the pickup, half the full barrels traded out for empty ones, both cab doors hanging open.

Grant’s heart lurched up and lodged in his throat. “Stay here,” he told her.

But she didn’t. She urged Malomar to a gallop and down they went. They raced to the abandoned pickup, and past it, up the next rise, as lightning split the sky and thunder rolled across the land.

Below, they saw two familiar figures, tied together, heads drooping, not moving…

And the tire tracks of pickups and trailers and even an abandoned panel from a portable chute.

“Rustlers!” Steph cried.

The sky opened up and the rain poured down.

“Wait here,” he commanded. Even from that distance, he could see the blood.

But she no more obeyed him that time than she had the time before. The rain beat at their faces, soaking them to the skin in an instant, as they raced toward the two still figures on the wet ground below.

After that, the dream had no coherence—just as the rest of that day, when it happened, had none.

It was all brutal images.

Two dead men who had once been their fathers, tied together, the blood on the ground mixing with the pelting rain, so the mud ran rusty. He dismounted first and went to them.

Steph cried silently, tears running down soft cheeks already soaked with rain. “Daddy…” She whispered the word, but it echoed in his head, raw and ragged, gaining volume until it was loud as a shout. “Oh, Daddy, oh, no…”

And she was off Malomar before he could order her to stay in the saddle. She knelt in the mud and the blood, taking her dad’s hanging head in her arms, pulling him close so his blood smeared her shirt.

Grant left her there. He took his rifle from his saddle holster, mounted up and went hunting. He didn’t go far. Out of that ravine, and into the next one.

Just over the rise from where their fathers sat, murdered, bleeding out on the muddy ground, he found a man. Gutshot. Dying. John Clifton and Andre Julen hadn’t gone easily. They’d taken at least one of their murderers down with them.

Grant knelt in the driving rain, took the dying man’s head in his lap.

“Names. I want names,” he commanded. “They left you here, didn’t they, to die? Tell me who they are and you get even, at least. You get to know you died doing one thing right.”

And the man whispered. Two names.

Grant left him there, moaning, pleading for help that was bound to be too long in coming, for rescue that would only happen too late. He checked out that ravine, found no one else. In his head was a roaring sound, louder than the thunder that rolled across the land—a roaring, and one word, repeating, over and over in an endless loop.

No, no, no, no….

He saw himself returning to Steph, to the bodies that once had been fine men.

She’d cut the ropes that bound his father to hers. She sat between them, there in the mud, holding one up on either side of her, her braids soaked through, caked with mud and the dead men’s blood, one green ribbon gone, the other no more than a straggling wet string.

“I didn’t want them tied,” she told him, eyes wild as the storm that raged around them. “They would hate that, being tied. But they were falling over. They shouldn’t be left to lie there in the mud…”

He knew he should dismount, get down to her, where he could pull her free of death, and hold her. That he needed to tell her some nice lies, to reassure her that it would be all right. Because that was what a man did at a time like this, he looked after the young ones and the females. And Steph was both.

But as he sat there astride his horse, looking down at her in the mud, before he could act on what he knew he should do, she looked up at him and she said, “Get the pickup. I’ll wait here. I’ll wait with them…”

“Steph—”

“Get it.”

“You sure?”

She nodded. Lightning turned everything bright white. “Just go on.” Thunder cracked, so loud it sounded like it was inside his head. She commanded, “You get it. Get the pickup now.”

Time jumped. They were lurching through the mud in the pickup, the two dead men in the bed in back. Steph sagged against the window on the passenger side, covered in mud and their fathers’ blood. She had her eyes closed. She opened them and glanced his way. He thought that he’d never seen eyes so old.

And then, with only a sigh, she shut them again.

And all at once he stood in the front room of the ranch house, holding his mother as she sobbed in his arms, calling for his father, yelling at God to please, please take her, too…

Grant lurched up from the pillows. The breath soughed in and out of him, loud and hard. He stared into the darkness, he whispered, “No…”