The Man Who Had Everything

It took a few minutes. It always did.

He sat, staring, shivering, panting as if he’d run a long race, shaking his head, repeating that one word, “No, no, no, no,” as, slowly, the past receded and he came to know where he was. Slowly he realized that it was over—long over, that terrible day nine years ago.

Eventually he reached for the bedside lamp. The light popped on and he blinked against the sudden brightness. He was covered in sweat.

For several more minutes once the light was on, he sat there, unmoving, staring in the general direction of the dark plasma television screen mounted on the opposite wall.

He reminded himself of the things he always forced himself to recall when the dream came to him: that it had all happened years ago, that he’d caught up with the other two rustlers himself and seen that they paid for what they’d done.

Things had been made about as right as they could be made, he told himself. There was nothing to do but let it go, forget the past.

Still, though, occasionally, less and less often as the years passed, the dream came to him. He would live that awful day again.

And maybe, he thought for the first time as he sat in his king-size bed, satin sheets soaked through with his sweat, staring at nothing…

Maybe that was right. Good.

Maybe it wasn’t bad to have to remember the brutal murder of two good men. To remember how senseless it was. How cruel and random.

Maybe now and then, it was right and fitting to take a minute to mourn for John Clifton and Andre Julen and all that had been lost with them.

To live again his mother’s grief and pain.

And to remember Steph. Twelve years old. Taking it on the chin, stalwart as any man. Propping up the dead men with her own young body.

Steph.

Brave and solid as they come on the day her daddy died.

Chapter Eight

The offices were formally closed the next day for the holiday. Grant went down there anyway. He had a few calls to make and some e-mails to return.

Then there was an issue with the concierge. He dealt with that. And head of housekeeping needed a little support with an angry guest who felt her room had not been properly made up and refused to be pacified until she’d talked with the manager. He gave the guest a free night and let the supervisor deal with the employee in question.

It was ten-thirty when he got back to his suite and dragged out the big box Arletta Hall had dropped off last week, the one with his costume inside. He took off the lid and stared down at a pair of ancient, battered boots, a grimy bandanna, an ugly floppy hat and some dirty pink long johns.

He was supposed to be a gold miner—a tribute not only to Thunder Canyon’s first gold rush over a century before, but also to the gold fever that had struck two years ago, when somebody found a nugget in an abandoned mine shaft after a local kid fell in there during a snowstorm and the whole town went wild looking for him.

All right. Maybe old-time miners did run around in dirty long johns. Maybe they were too wild with gold fever to bother wearing pants. But the damn thing was a little too authentic. It actually had one of those button flaps in back so a man wouldn’t have to pull them down when he paid a visit to the outhouse. And in front, well, if he wore that thing by itself around Steph, no one would have any doubt about how glad he was to see her.

Something had to be done. And fast.

Arletta’s chunky charm bracelet clattered as she put her hands together and moaned in dismay. “Jeans? But I really don’t think jeans are the look we should be going for…”

Behind him, Grant heard a low, husky chuckle and knew it was coming from Steph. “They’re old, these jeans,” he reasoned. “Nice and faded and worn.” He’d borrowed them from the groom at the stables, the same one who always had a hat to loan. “And I want to be a more responsible kind of gold miner. You know, a guy who remembers to put on his pants in the morning.”

“Oh. Well. I just don’t think we want to go this way….” Arletta moaned some more, all fluttery indecision. Townspeople milled around them, busy getting ready to play their own parts in the parade.

Grant leaned down to whisper in the shopkeeper’s pink ear—she was a tiny little skinny thing, no more than four feet tall and she smelled like baby powder. “Listen, Arletta,” he whispered low. “If you think I’m running around in dirty long johns with no pants, you’ll have to find yourself another prospector…”

“Oh, dear Lord. No. We can’t have that.” She sucked it up. At last. “It’s all right. Those jeans will just have to do.”

He gave her a grin. “Arletta, you’re the best.”

“Oh. My.” She simpered up at him. “You charmer, you…” She tugged on the dirty bandanna around his neck. “There. That’s better. And the hat looks just great, I must say—and tell me now. What do you think of the float?”

They turned to admire it together. It consisted of a papier-mâché mountain topped with sparkly cotton snow. A miniature prairie lay below, complete with split rail fences, a creek made of crinkled up aluminum foil, a couple of homemade cottonwoods and some papier-mâché livestock happily munching away at the AstroTurf grass. There was also a log cabin trailing a construction paper cloud of smoke from the chimney and, clinging to the side of the mountain, a miniature replica of the resort’s sprawling main lodge. A sparkly rainbow bearing the glittery words, Thunder Canyon Resort, arched over the whole creation.

Grant swept off his hat and held it to his chest. “Magnificent,” he solemnly intoned.

Arletta did more simpering. “Oh, I am so pleased you think so.” She grabbed a gold pan from a pile of props and also a baseball-size hunk of papier-mâché, spray-painted gold. “Here you go. Your gold pan and your nugget.”

He hefted the hunk of papier-mâché. “Hey. With a nugget this size, I don’t need this damn gold pan. In fact, I think I’ll just head over to the Hitching Post right now and order a round of drinks for everyone, on me. Isn’t that what miners do when they make a big strike, head for the bar and get seriously hammered?”

“You are such a kidder,” giggled Arletta. Then she chided, “The gold pan is part of the costume—and you can join your rowdy friends at the Hitching Post later. After the parade.”

He pretended to look crestfallen. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Now, we have to get you in place. And Stephanie, too…” She signaled Steph, who waited a few yards away, wearing a leather cowgirl outfit with a short skirt and a tooled jacket, both skirt and jacket heavy on the leather fringe. Fancy red boots and a big white hat completed the costume. She had Trixiebelle with her, all tacked up in a red and white saddle, with bridle to match. It was a real Dale Evans-style getup. And she looked damn cute in it.

“This way, you two…” Arletta instructed.

The shopkeeper showed them where they were supposed to stand. Trixiebelle, a real trouper, didn’t balk once as Steph led her up onto the float and into position and then swung herself into the saddle before Grant could jump up there and offer to help.

As if a skilled horsewoman liked Steph needed a hand up. She’d laugh at him if he offered. And she’d probably suspect that he was only trying to get a look under that short skirt, anyway.

Get a look under her skirt?

Where the hell had that come from?

He was thirty-two years old, for crying out loud. Far past the age when a guy tried to find ways to sneak a peek up a girl’s skirt.

“Grant. Are you with me here?” Arletta was frowning, looking slightly miffed. “I need your full attention, now.”

He shook himself and tried to appear alert. “You got it.”

She pointed. “Stand there.”

He took his place by the crinkled foil stream and Arletta stood back to study the picture they made. “Hmm,” she said, somehow managing to be both thoughtful and agitated at the same time. “Hmm… oh, no. Oh, my…”

“What?” Grant demanded, beginning to worry that his fly might be open.

“It’s too spotty.”

Grant cast a quick glance Steph’s way. He could tell she was trying real hard not to laugh. “Uh…spotty?” he carefully inquired.

Arletta frowned with great seriousness. “Yes. The composition. It’s simply not…pulled together.”

The high school band had started to play at the front of the line. “I think we’re going to be rolling in a minute or two here,” he warned.

“You’re right. Action must be taken.” Arletta started pointing again. “Grant. Lean that pan against the rail fence. And go stand by the horse—yes. Right there. At the head. Stephanie, let him hold the reins.” Steph muffled a snort of amusement as she handed them over. “Much better, yes….” Arletta kept rattling off instructions. “Grant, you’ll have to wave with that nugget, hold it up nice and high so everyone can see you’ve really struck it rich. Do it.”

He waved with the fake nugget.

“Oh, yes. That’s it. And Stephanie, take off your hat, wave with it. Big smiles, both of you. Big, big smiles.” Grant smiled for all he was worth. Evidently Steph, mounted behind, was doing the same. Because Arletta clapped her hands and cried out gleefully, “Exactly! We’ve got it. That’s perfect! Wonderful! Just right!”

And just in time, too. The float gave a lurch and started moving—slowly, like a big ocean liner inching from port. They pulled away from Arletta, who continued to gesture wildly and rattle off instructions. “Wave, Grant! That’s it. Wave that nugget. Smiling, you two. Don’t forget. Smiling, smiling! That’s the way…”

He felt the toe of Steph’s fancy boot gently nudge him in the middle of the back.

“What?” he growled out of the corner of his mouth as he waved his nugget high and proud.

She nudged him again, but she didn’t say a word. He glanced back at her and she was waving that big hat of hers, smiling wide at the crowds that lined the covered sidewalks to either side. People cheered and stomped in appreciation and kids ran out in the street to grab the candy and bubble gum the driver of the truck that pulled the float was tossing in handfuls out his open window.

Up ahead, the band played “Yankee Doodle Dandy.” Grant looked out at the crowd and thought that he’d never seen so many people crowding the streets of his town.

This Thunder Canyon Fourth of July Parade was the biggest one ever, by far.

Even in that silly miner’s getup, with the fake nugget in his hand, Grant felt a surge of real pride—that his town was growing. Thriving. That he was a part of Thunder Canyon’s new prosperity. That his own efforts had contributed, at least a little, to the boom that had started with a modern-day gold rush and continued with the swift and rousing success of the Thunder Canyon Resort.

Chapter Nine

As the float rolled down Main Street, past the charming century-old brick buildings and covered sidewalks of Thunder Canyon’s Old Town, Steph waved her hat wildly—and planned her next move with Grant.

Her mom wouldn’t have approved of her scheming in the least. Partly because Marie Julen was a woman who found scheming beneath her—and partly because she remained doubtful about her daughter’s decision to grab her chance with Grant while she could.

Too bad. Steph was all grown-up now, old enough to make her own decisions. Yeah, she and Grant had had a rough patch in their new relationship when he’d considered selling the ranch. But they’d gotten through that. Things were looking up in big way.

And today was a day tailor-made to suit her plans. A great opportunity for the two of them to be together, to enjoy each other’s company. To have a little fun.

The celebrations would continue all day and into the night. There would be the annual races, right there on Main Street. And after the races, over at the fairgrounds, the big Independence Day Rodeo. She planned to sit next to Grant for the rodeo—except during the barrel races where she was a contestant.

She figured she could leave him on his own while she competed. By then, he’d feel duty-bound to root for her while she raced—especially since the resort was her sponsor and had paid a pretty penny for her top-of-the-line gear.

After the rodeo, she’d get him to take her to dinner. And after dinner, the big Independence Day dance.

She just had to make sure that, when the parade was over, Grant didn’t get away.

The problem was Trixiebelle. She needed to get the mare back to her trailer and over to the fairgrounds for the rodeo. But if she took the time do all that, she just knew Grant would find some way to disappear on her. It never paid to give a skittish man the time to have second thoughts. To keep him with her for the day, she’d have to stay close at his side from the moment the float pulled to a stop.

She needed someone to take care of Trixiebelle—and what do you know? As the float finished its ride down Main and turned into the parking lot of a local motel called the Wander-On Inn, she spotted Rufus and Jim. The hands stood right there on the sidewalk, at the edge of the lot.

She waved at them and shouted, “Rufus! Hey, meet us when this thing comes to a stop!”

Rufus pulled a sour face, but he and Jim were there waiting when she led Trixiebelle down off the float. Arletta, who’d somehow managed to race down Main through the packed crowds and was waiting when the parade trailed into the motel lot, had cornered Grant again and was gushing all over him.

Great.

She had a minute or two, at least, before he’d have time to make his escape.

“Rufus—”

The old cowboy grunted. “You say my name that way, gal, and I know I’m about to be gettin’ my orders.”

“I just wonder if you’d mind taking Trixiebelle back to the parking lot at Cedar Street? Her trailer’s there, hitched to my pickup, along with my racing costume and barrel saddle. If you could—”

“Hell. Why not?” He knew where to meet her and what time. He rattled them off. “Right?”

“Thanks.”

“No thanks are needed—and you better hurry. Looks like your gold miner’s gettin’ away.”

She laughed and paused long enough to kiss his grizzled cheek. “You know too much, you realize that.”

“I’m arthritic, not blind. Best get a move on.” Beside him, Jim was looking at the ground.

Steph knew the hand was kind of sweet on her, but she’d never encouraged him. She’d always kept things strictly professional between them.

Now, when he finally glanced up, she gave him a quick, no-nonsense nod—not ignoring him, but not encouraging him, either—and then whirled, her mind instantly back on the man who filled her heart. Grant was heading off into the crowd.

“Hey, Mr. Miner!”

He stopped. Turned.

She stuck out a hip and propped a fist on it. “Buy a girl a drink?”

He grunted. “It’s barely noon.”

She hurried to catch up and looped her arm with his. “A root beer will do.” She linked her arm with his. “Love that hat.” It was leather, floppy and silly and it made her smile. And he was so big and tall and handsome, even in his pink long-john shirt and dirty bandanna. Just looking up at him had her heart beating faster. He was her favorite cowboy and he always had been.

He groused, “As a matter of fact, I was just thinking about where I could go to change.” The good news was he made no effort to pull away from her. In fact, he looked down at her as if he never wanted to leave her side—and hated himself because of it.

She could almost feel sorry for him. If she wasn’t so dang happy to be the object of his guilty lust. “You can’t change your clothes.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Well, if you change, then I’ll change. You know you’d hate that.”

A smile tried to tug at the edges of his scowl. “Okay. I admit it. You look damn cute in that skirt.”

“Thank you.” She shook the arm that wasn’t clutching his, making the fringe dance. “It’s this fringe, right? You just love a lot of fringe on a woman.”

“Er…that’s it. The fringe.”

The loudspeakers over by the grandstand in front of the town hall crackled to life and over the noise of the crowd, they heard the voice of the honorable Philo T. Brookhurst, town mayor. “Folks, step back off the street now. Time to cordon off Main from South Main to Nugget. We’re gearing up fast for the annual Thunder Canyon Races. Get your kids ready to win a twenty-dollar prize.”

She let go of his arm and grabbed his hand. “Come on. The toddlers run first. They’re always so cute, the way they forget where they’re going and wander off in all directions. Let’s get us a good spot.”

She hauled him along behind her, weaving her way through the crowd. He didn’t try to protest, so she figured she had him—for the moment anyway.

And she did. She had him.

He stayed close at her side. He bought her that root beer and they watched the races, every one of them, from the plump toddlers on up to the final race for “octogenarians and above.” A ninety-five-year-old woman won that one. She held up her twenty-dollar prize and let out a whoop you could hear all the way to Billings. Then the old gal threw her arms around the mayor’s thick neck and planted a big smacker right on his handlebar moustache.

Steph leaned close to Grant and teased in a whisper, “Now that is a feisty woman.”

“Yeah.” He sent her a smoldering look, one that strayed to her mouth. She wished with all her heart that he would kiss her. Right there on Main Street, with the whole town watching. But he didn’t. He only whispered back, “Damn spunky, and that is no lie.”

After the races, Steph gave Grant no time to start making those see-you-later noises. She asked him for a ride over to the fairgrounds. After all, she told him sweetly, Rufus had taken her pickup to pull Trixiebelle’s trailer over there for her.

What could he say? He would never leave her stranded without a ride.

He’d parked his black Range Rover behind the town hall.

“Very nice,” she told him, once she’d climbed up into the plush embrace of the leather passenger seat. She sniffed the air. “Mmm. Smells like money in here.”

“Smart aleck,” he muttered as he stuck the key into the ignition. Before he could turn it over, she reached across and laid her hand on his.

Heat. Oh, she did love the feel of that. Every time she touched him, a jolt of something hot and bright went zipping all through her body. Making her grin. Making her shiver in the most delightful way.

“Steph,” he warned, low and rough.

She leaned closer. “Kiss me.”

He was looking at her mouth again. “You’re just asking for trouble, you know that?”

“Uh-uh. I’m not…”

“Oh, no?”

“What I’m asking for is a kiss.” She dared to let her fingers trail up his arm. Amazing, that arm. So warm and hard and muscular beneath the grimy pink sleeve of his long johns.

“A kiss?” he repeated, still staring at her mouth.

“Yeah. A long, slow, wet one.” She brushed the side of his neck with her forefinger and felt a shudder go through him. “That’s what I want. And I know that you know the kind I mean…”

He said her name again, this time kind of desperately.

“Oh, yeah,” she whispered as he leaned in that extra fraction of an inch and pressed his lips to hers.

Oh, my. He tasted so good. She opened her mouth and sucked his tongue inside, throwing her arms around him, letting out a moan of pure joy.

He stopped it much too soon. Taking her by the elbows, he peeled her off him and held her at arm’s length.

She tried to look innocent. “What? You don’t like kissing me?”

He said something under his breath, a very bad word. “You know I do. And if you keep this up…”

“What? You’ll make love to me? Oh, now wouldn’t that be horrible?”

“You’re just a kid and you—”

She swore then, a word every bit as bad as the one he’d used. “Maybe you’d like to see my driver’s license. It’s got my birthday right on there, in case you forgot how old I am.”

“You know what I mean. You don’t…date a lot.”

Gently she pulled free of his grip. “And you do. I know that. I’m not some dreamy fool, though you keep trying to convince yourself I am.”

He actually looked flustered, his face red and his blue eyes full of tender indecision. “I…meant what I said last night, that’s all. It wouldn’t last. And you’d end up hating me. I couldn’t take that.”

She held his eyes and banished all hint of teasing from her tone as she told him, “No matter what happens, Grant, I’ll never hate you.”

“You say that now…”

“Because it’s true.” She hooked her seat belt. When he didn’t move, she slanted him another glance. “Come on. Let’s go. The barrel race is up first. I have to track Rufus down and get my horse.”

For a moment, she thought he’d say more. But then he only swore again and reached for the key to start the engine.

* * *

She lost the barrel race.

Got too close to the second barrel, knocked it clean over. And that was it. The five-second penalty for tipping a barrel took her right out of the running in a race where the difference between first and second place was in fractions of a second.

She gave Trixiebelle an apple and handed her over to Rufus, who said he’d see to getting her home. “Jim can take the other truck back and I’ll take yours.” He shook a gnarled finger at her. “You watch yourself now. Don’t go stealin’ some innocent cowboy’s heart…”

With teasing solemnity, she vowed, “You know I would never do any such thing.” The ranch hand snorted and waved her away and she went to find Grant, who’d saved her a place in the stands.

He threw an arm around her and pulled her close.

“Hey, tough luck. At least we know you’re the best.”

She thought that she wouldn’t mind losing every race she entered, if it meant Grant would put his arm around her and tell her how great she was. “Truth is, I’m thinking my barrel racing days are over. I just don’t have the time to practice like I used to. After all, I’ve got a ranch to run—not to mention teaching the occasional resort-happy tenderfoot how to stay in the saddle.”

He looked at her admiringly. “You’re a good sport, Steph. Always have been.”

It wasn’t the kind of compliment the average woman could appreciate. But Steph recognized high praise when she heard it.

He sat right there at her side through the whole rodeo, from roping to calf wresting, bareback and bronc riding and bull riding, too. It was a dream of a day and she never wanted it to end.

They were back at his four-by-four at a little before five. “Take me to dinner,” she commanded.

“This is getting damn dangerous,” he said.

But he didn’t say no.

He drove to a friendly Italian place he liked in New Town, east of the historic area around Main. He said they’d never get seats anywhere in Old Town, where all the restaurants would be packed with tourists and folks down from the resort, looking for a little taste of Thunder Canyon hospitality.

They shared a bottle of Chianti and she told him more about her plans for improvements at Clifton’s Pride. He talked about the new golf course that a world-famous golf pro was designing for the resort, about his ideas for further expansion, about how much he loved the work he was doing.

She grinned across the table at him. “You don’t have to say how much you love your work. It’s right there in your eyes every time you mention it.”

He teased, “Are you telling me I’m boring you?”

“Uh-uh. Not in the least. I like to see you happy, with your eyes shining, all full of your big plans.”

He leaned close again. “You do, huh?”

“I do.” She raised her wineglass. He touched his against it.

When he set the glass down, he said, “This is nice.”

And she nodded. “Yeah. It is. Real nice.”

“Too nice…” His tone had turned bleak.

And after that, he grew quiet. Oh, he was kind and gentle as ever. If she asked a question, he answered it. He wasn’t rude or anything.