“I don’t need you to get my door,” she spits out, then seems to remember this meeting is professional, not personal, and softens her tone. “But thank you.”
I don’t stick around to assist her in climbing up. She’s wearing boots and jeans, not a dress, and besides, my truck has running boards. She can manage the climb, but I’m not sure I can manage watching her.
I round the front of my truck, looking away from the windshield on purpose, and think about my family decree that’s kept me from being declared future owner of this place.
The successor of HCC must be married.
But what woman could love someone as fucked-up in the head as me?
“This is it.”
I press the brake gently, letting the truck roll to a stop and cutting the engine. “Pretty much everything you see right here is what’s for sale.”
I glance at Dakota, reading her profile. She hitches forward and rests her forearms on the dash. “Got it.”
“Do you want to walk it?”
She turns sharply, her dark gaze falling over me. The question seems to have taken her by surprise. “Aren’t we waiting for Jericho?”
I shake my head. “I called her when you were running late and told her to give us an hour. She’ll be along after a while.” I wish she weren’t coming at all. There’s so much tension between me and Dakota I could slice through it like softened butter. Adding Jericho to the equation is bound to make it worse.
“Well, then.” Dakota opens the door and hops out. She turns back to look at me, ass still planted in my seat. “Are you leaving me to do this alone?”
My eyes narrow. I get the feeling she’s jabbing at me about leaving her to wake up alone. If only she knew how I haven’t forgotten even the tiniest curve of her body.
I hold her challenging gaze for a moment too long, then jump from my truck and walk around it to where she stands, clad in those tight jeans and white V-neck tee. Her hair is twisted up on her head, her slender, delicate neck in juxtaposition with the fire blazing in her eyes.
“Come on,” I say, gruffer than I intend to, and start walking.
Dakota puts three feet between us, just like she did before. She’s about one pace ahead of me, and I watch her walk. She touches the top of the dried grass where it’s overgrown, pokes at a puffy bush.
“What is this called?” she asks, pointing to a light green plant. “They’re everywhere.”
“Mormon Tea.”
“And that one?” She points behind me. “With the white flowers?”
I don’t need to look to know what she’s pointing to. There’s only one plant that produces white flowers out here. “Cliffrose.”
She nods quietly and keeps walking. “Can you please tell me when I’m in the middle of what’s for sale?”
“Sure.”
We keep going, and neither of us says anything. The silence is far from companionable. It’s thick, heavy, and I swear to God it’s giving me heartburn.
I stop walking and watch her go another twenty yards. “You’re there,” I call out, and she stops.
She turns toward Sierra Grande. The town is visible from here. The property we’re selling sits right up against the town limits. Dakota shades her eyes with one hand and keeps looking out, turning her head right and left a little at a time, taking it all in.
She’s beautiful, standing with her strawberry blonde hair against the mountainous desert backdrop. She’s not from a ranching family, but between those boots and the feisty attitude, she appears to be cut from the right cloth.
“What are you looking at?” I ask, coming closer to her. I stop five feet from her. It feels like a safe distance.
“I want to know what people will see when they come out here to use whatever it is I’m going to put here.”
My head cocks to the side. “Is that right?”
“Yes.” She looks me square in my eyes as she says it, daring me to tell her otherwise.
My feet move me a step forward, and I’m honestly not certain it’s a step I consciously took. “I have three more meetings with other buyers, but I guess I’ll just call them and cancel. I didn’t realize you’d won the property.”
She steps one foot closer to me. “I didn’t realize I hadn’t.”
What happens next isn’t my fault. She’s the one wearing that V-neck, showing that damn tiny mole. My gaze drops down to her collarbone, to the little fleck of brown, and lower, to her belly button, where I know its twin is. Her gaze follows mine, and when I drag my stare back up her body to meet her eyes, I see pure rage.
“I knew it,” she seethes, her words dripping from between clenched teeth. “I knew you hadn’t forgotten me.”
I don’t know what to say. I have no clue how to make myself verbalize all the things I’m thinking, everything I’m feeling. If this were a movie or a romance novel, I’d pull her to me roughly and kiss her until our lips felt bruised.
Reflexively, I reach out. My fingers barely brush her arm, and she lets me touch her for the most excruciatingly short second before she yanks her arm away as if my touch were acid.
“Don’t you dare,” she hisses.
“Dakota, I—”
“Wes?” Jericho’s voice breaks through layers of tension and resentment, anger and humiliation.
I turn and watch her teetering across the dirt in high heels. Did she not understand where she was meeting us?
“Wow,” she says, laughing lightly. “I called your name five times. You two must’ve been deep in conversation.”
Neither Dakota or I respond. What’s there to say?
“Anyway…” Jericho’s gaze flits between me and Dakota, trying to glean something from our collective silence. “What do you think, Dakota? About the property?”
Dakota’s posture relaxes, her shoulders softening, and she looks back out at Sierra Grande. “I love it. I think I could do something really special here. I need to meet a few more people and get some ideas, but I already have a couple.”
“More people?” Jericho asks, catching on to the word Dakota used.
Dakota glances at her, her eyes moving down to the heels, and her mouth moves like she’s trying to hide her laughter. “I met a man last night at the Bar N. He had some thoughts about who I could talk to.”
“Who?” I ask.
Dakota regards me with frosty eyes, and I think it might be worse than when they’re on fire. “Waylon Guthrie.”
“Doesn’t ring a bell.”
She smirks. “Don’t worry, he knew plenty about you. And your family.”
I ignore the little dagger she just threw my way and look out over the valley where Sierra Grande sits. Up above the scrubby desert, where the landscape turns to pine, that’s where the Hayden Ranch sits. It’s commanding in its place, like a castle watching over the town. Some people appreciate the position, feel safe because of it. Others resent it. That’s the thing about being on top. Everyone thinks they know you, and what they think they know is almost always far from the truth.
“Whoever buys this property, they’re going to have to get a crane out here to remove all those pecan trees,” Jericho says, one corner of her top lip curled up in disgust. I follow her gaze out to a grove of sad-looking pecan trees. They don’t grow naturally here, and nobody ever knew how they came to be. Gramps says someone passing through tossed some seeds on the ground, and that was all it took.