McKettrick's Luck. Linda Lael Miller
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“Thanks, Roselle,” he said, to anchor himself in ordinary reality.
Roselle touched his shoulder, smiled flirtatiously and sashayed away to fill the orders.
Cheyenne raised her eyebrows slightly, but said nothing.
Might as well bite the bullet, Jesse figured. “So Cheyenne, what brings you back to Indian Rock after all this time?” he asked easily.
She took a sip of fizzy water. “Business,” she said.
Jesse thought of his land. Of the timber, and the wide, grassy clearings, and the creek that shone so brightly in the sun that it made a man blink. He tasted his coffee and waited.
Cheyenne sighed. She had the air of someone about to jump through an ice hole in a frozen lake. “My company is prepared to offer you a very competitive price for—”
“No,” Jesse broke in flatly.
She’d made the jump, and from her expression, the water was even colder than expected. “No?”
“No,” he repeated.
“You didn’t let me finish,” she protested, rallying. “We’re talking about several million dollars here. No carrying back a mortgage. No balloon payments. Cash. We can close on the deal within two weeks of going to contract.”
Jesse started to reach for his hat, sighed and withdrew his hand. He’d seen this coming. Why did he feel like a kid who’d counted on getting a BB gun for Christmas and found new underwear under the tree instead?
“There isn’t going to be any contract,” he said.
She paled. Settled back against the booth seat. Her hand trembled as she set down her water glass.
“The price is negotiable,” she told him after a few moments of looking stricken.
He knew what she was thinking; he could read it in her face. Money talks. She thought he was angling for a higher price.
“You should never take up poker,” he said.
The food arrived.
Roselle winked as she set the burger down in front of him.
“I hate women like that,” Cheyenne told him after Roselle had swivel-hipped it back behind the counter.
Unprepared for this bend in the conversational river, Jesse paused with a French fry halfway to his mouth. “What?”
“They’re a type,” Cheyenne said, leaning in a little and lowering her voice. “Other women are invisible to them. If they had their way, the whole world would be a reverse harem.”
Jesse chuckled. “Well, that’s an interesting take on the subject,” he allowed. “The soup’s pretty good here.”
She picked up her spoon, put it down again. “It’s not as if I’m asking you to sell any part of the Triple M,” she said. Another hairpin turn, but this time, Jesse was ready. “That land is just sitting there. Unused.”
“Unspoiled,” Jesse clarified. “I suppose you want to turn it into an industrial park. Or a factory—the world really needs more disposable plastic objects.”
“Condominiums,” Cheyenne said, squaring her shoulders.
Jesse winced. “Even worse,” he replied.
“People need places to live.”
“So do critters,” Jesse said. He’d been hungry when he’d suggested supper at the Roadhouse. Now, he wasn’t sure he could choke down any part of that cheeseburger. “We’ve got so many coyotes and bobcats coming right into town these days that the feds are about to put a bounty on them. Do you know why, Ms. Bridges?” he asked, suddenly icily formal.
“Why are coyotes and bobcats coming into town,” she countered, “or why is the government about to put a bounty on them?”
Jesse set his back teeth, thought of his cousin Keegan for no reason he could have explained, and deliberately relaxed his jaws. “Wild animals are being driven farther out of their natural habitat every day,” he said. “By people like you. They’ve got to be somewhere, damn it.”
“Which do you care more about, Mr. McKettrick? People or animals?”
“Depends,” Jesse said. “I’ve known people who could learn scruples from a rabid badger. And it’s not as if building more condominiums is a service to humanity. Most of them are a blight on the land—and they all look alike, too. Stucco boxes, stacked on top of each other. What’s that about?”
Cheyenne picked up her spoon, made a halfhearted swipe at her soup. Straightened her spine. “I’d be glad to show you the blueprints,” she said. “Our project is designed to blend gracefully into the landscape, with minimal impact on the environment.”
Jesse eyed his cheeseburger regretfully. All those additives and preservatives going to waste, not to mention a lot of perfectly good grease. “No deal,” he said. With anybody else, he’d have played out the hand, let her believe he was interested in selling, just to see what came of it. Cheyenne Bridges was different, and that was the most disturbing element of all.
Why was she different?
“Just let me show you the plans,” she persisted.
“Just let me show you the land,” he retorted.
She smiled. “I’ll let you show me yours,” she bargained, “if you’ll let me show you mine.”
He laughed. “You sure are persistent,” he said.
“You sure are stubborn,” she answered.
Jesse reached for his cheeseburger. By that time, he’d had ample opportunity to notice that she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.
“You ever get married?” he asked.
She seemed to welcome the change of subject, though the quiet, bruised vigilance was still there in her eyes and the set of her shoulders and the way she held her head. “No,” she said. “You?”
“No,” he told her. He and Brandi, a rodeo groupie, had been married by an Elvis in Las Vegas, come to their senses before word had got out, and agreed to divorce an hour after they’d checked out of the hotel. They’d parted friends, and he hadn’t seen her in a couple of years, though she hit him up for a few hundred dollars every now and then, and he always sent the money.
As far as he was concerned, he’d answered honestly. Brandi slipped out of his mind as quickly as she’d slipped in.
Meanwhile, he’d only taken a couple of bites of the sandwich, but the patty was thick and goopy with cheese, and protein always centered him—especially when he’d been playing cards all day, subsisting on the cold cereal he’d had for breakfast after doing the chores on the ranch. Sure enough, it was the burger that lifted his spirits.
Sure enough, said a voice in his head, you’re full of sheep dip.
It’s the woman.
“How’s the soup?” he asked.
“Cold,” she said. “How’s the burger?”
He grinned. “It’s clogging my arteries even as we speak.”
Cheyenne lifted one eyebrow, but she was smiling. “And that’s good?”
“Probably not,” he said. “But it tastes great.”
After that, the conversation was relatively easy.
They finished their meal, Jesse paid the bill, and Cheyenne left the tip.
He walked her to her car. There was virtually no crime in Indian Rock, but that kind of courtesy was bred into him, like opening doors and carrying heavy things.
“You’ll really look