Convincing the Rancher. Claire McEwen
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THE HIGH DESERT air nipped her skin with icy teeth. Tess hunched her shoulders and used her free hand to haul her collar up higher, but the frigid wind worked its way between the seams of her coat, stealing her warmth inch by inch. Clutching her phone, she paced the sidewalk, raising her voice as the wind tried to whip it away. “Ed, just because my friend moved out to this backwoods cow town, that doesn’t make me qualified for this!”
“We’ve been over this, Tess. You already know the area.” Ed’s voice was calm, and she pictured her boss, comfortable and snug in his San Francisco office, probably sipping excellent coffee. She’d had to endure vile convenience-store slop on the drive down, and she was pretty sure there wasn’t an espresso to be found in Benson, California.
“I’ve been here once.” She could swear the formidable peaks of the Sierra Nevada were glaring at her. She still couldn’t believe her best friend had left San Francisco behind for this.
“Come on, where is the Tess Cole I know and love? The one who enjoys a good challenge?”
“You mean the one who doesn’t want to spend the next month in a town whose population wouldn’t even fill our conference room?” Tess looked around at the white clapboard buildings, weathered by the fierce gusts that made this area so perfect for the wind farm she’d been sent here to sell. Down the street she saw a few ancient brick storefronts. It would be picturesque if Tess were a fan of the Wild West. She’d never cared much for history.
“Tess, did you call me just to complain? We’ve been having this same conversation for weeks. It’s not going to be easy convincing that town to accept a wind farm, and you’re the best community-relations person we’ve got. Anyway, don’t you have a meeting with the mayor soon?” Ed didn’t often get angry, but she could tell he was frustrated now.
Tess took a deep breath of the icy air, then another, calming herself. Silently counting to ten, she watched a semitruck trundle past, headed down Highway 395 toward Los Angeles. For a split second she imagined flagging down the driver and begging a ride to Southern California. She’d readily leave Ed and his windmills far behind for some sunshine, shopping and fine dining. That was her world. Not snow-topped mountains, cattle and a wind farm no one wanted.
But she also didn’t want to get fired. If she ever left Ed’s public relations firm, it would be on her own terms. “You’re right, Ed. I’d better get started.” She made her voice contrite, but in her mind’s eye she gave him a kick in the shin. It felt good.
“You can do this. Sell them on this wind project. The sooner you do, the sooner you can come home.” Ed hung up and Tess listened to the silence a moment, his absence still her closest link to home.
Shoving her phone into her coat pocket, Tess stretched, cramped after the long drive from San Francisco. She looked around, coming to terms with her exile. Benson was located on the edge of a huge flat valley that seemed to come in two forms, brown pasture and brown desert. It would all be incredibly boring except for one thing. Just beyond the town, the abrupt peaks of the Sierra Nevada jutted straight up. Their jagged cliffs seemed to roll on endlessly, one granite slab piled behind another. It was only October, but there was already snow on the mountaintops.
It was pretty if you liked your nature freezing and intimidating. Tess had never given nature much thought, but walking up Main Street, she decided that this was definitely not her kind of nature. If she had to pick a favorite, it would be tropical, with beaches and fruity drinks.
Benson town hall towered over all the other buildings, built of granite cut from the surrounding mountains. Luckily, Tess found a restroom just beyond the creaky double doors. She stood in front of the mirror, inventorying the damage to her carefully assembled look.
The mirror’s vintage glass provided only a wavy reflection, but one thing was clear—she was a mess. Her long blond hair, once slicked into a neat chignon, was now poking out in every direction. Her mascara had fragmented into ebony dust. And her pink cheeks and cold-reddened nose completed the havoc wreaked by the Benson wind.
Tess reached into her leather tote for her voluminous makeup bag. The sight of the colorful tubes and jars lifted her spirits a fraction. The Benson climate might challenge her skills, but she had no doubt she’d soon figure out the right products for the harsh conditions.
Her hair back in place, her face perfected once again, Tess plucked a piece of lint from her suit jacket and pulled the skirt down. It hadn’t looked nearly this short in San Francisco, but something about this historic granite building made her outfit choice seem frivolous. It would have been better, and a whole lot warmer, to wear a pantsuit. No regrets, she reminded herself. No regrets, ever.
Briefcase in hand, she left the restroom and stepped lightly up the stairs into the marble-floored reception area. A wholesome-looking young woman sat at the desk, and her eyes widened in surprise when she saw Tess.
“I have an appointment with the mayor,” Tess informed her. “Please tell him that Tess Cole is here.” She kept her voice firm and polite, no trailing questions at the end of her sentences. It was best to take charge up front.
“Um...yes, I’ll get him right away.” Her old wooden chair screeched on the marble floor as the young woman stood up. She clumped down a hallway to the right of the desk. Tess watched as the girl poked her head through the third doorway on the left, and then returned, self-consciously straightening the hem of her dress. “Go ahead, Ms. Cole,” she told Tess, and sat down at her desk again to shuffle papers.
Tess walked down the hall toward the open door of the mayor’s office. As she drew closer, she heard a deep, clear voice saying, “Gus, we have always closed down Main Street for the holiday parade.” Tess paused outside the door, annoyance creeping in. If he was expecting her, why was he on the phone? The voice was momentarily silent, as its owner, presumably Benson’s mayor, listened to someone on the other end of the line. “I would disagree,” the masculine voice continued. “I think the parade is good for business, and if I remember correctly, your shop is always packed on parade day. Are you sure this doesn’t have something to do with the fact that we asked Wyatt Silver to be the grand marshal this year?”
Gus? Wyatt Silver? These were names straight out of some old Western. What had she gotten herself into? She felt ridiculous standing in the hallway like this. He might be the mayor of the middle of nowhere, but courtesy was courtesy. Tess took a few quiet steps backward, cleared her throat and then stepped heavily, clicking her heels on the floor.
She heard the mayor say, “Gus, I’ll need to call you back,” just as she’d hoped. She knocked lightly and moved into the open doorway, plastering a confident smile on her face. Then she stopped, momentarily stunned.
The man sitting with cowboy-booted feet crossed on the desk was gorgeous. His light brown hair was cut short, almost military in style, and exposed his features, none of them perfect, but all together creating masculine beauty. Below his dark gray eyes was the outline of strong cheekbones, his skin clean-shaven and tanned. His nose was just slightly crooked, as if he’d broken it at some point.
Something about him looked familiar—she could swear she’d seen him before. Or did he just resemble a celebrity? Either way, she could think about it later. Right now she had to make a good first impression.
She stuck out her hand and strode toward the desk. “Mayor Jacobs, I’m Tess Cole, public relations consultant.” As he stood slowly and reached for her hand, she realized he was staring, the surprise on his face turning into a slow smile that creased the weathered lines at the corners of his intense eyes. In that instant he shook her hand, it was clear that he recognized her, too. But from where?
His hand was huge and enveloped hers—there was something familiar in that, as well. It could be just because Tess had a thing for big guys. And Mayor Jacobs was big. His six-foot-something frame towered over her five-eight. She was having a hard time not staring at his broad chest and his thick muscled arms under his sleeves.