She tightened her clasped hands and held her breath.
“The highest bid on the final lot, the ranch, including two hundred and two acres of woodland and pasture…”
Get on with it! Liberty bounced her heel faster as the auctioneer insisted on dragging out the final, heart-throbbing moment and effectively spiking Liberty’s adrenaline to an all-time high.
“Is number eight.”
The number passed through her ears without meaning. She leaned back, blinking. Number eight? But her assigned number was six.
“Hell yeahhhh,” the man next to her drawled out and stood.
She tipped her head up to look at his big old smile plastered over his face. Two men seated in front of them stood and extended their hands to him. “Congratulations, Bellamy. You’ve been gunning for it long enough that you deserve to own this land.”
Her heart pulsed in her throat as she gaped at them. But…her bid was high. Competitive.
Not competitive enough.
Somehow, she stumbled to her feet and held onto the chair in front of her to steady herself as she reeled with the realization that her dreams had been stomped into the ground by that high-priced size twelve beside her.
She lost. No ranch to call her own. No horses to raise and care for, and no safe haven from the world that hadn’t been the kindest to her over the last year during her bloody, bitter, soul-sucking divorce.
I’m sorry, Grandpa.
She started down the porch steps and made it a few paces before she had to stop and gulp down some air to stave off her impending tears. Once she let that floodgate open, there wouldn’t be any stopping it for a long time, and she wanted to be alone when that happened.
Someone stopped beside her. She glanced from those familiar boots, up a long pair of legs to the faded blue plaid shirt and finally a set of ice blue eyes so piercing she nearly forgot she should hate this man for stealing her ranch out from under her.
He nudged his hat upward, and a few strands of brown hair slid with the felt. “You all right?” he drawled out in a voice pitched on the quiet side.
“I…” She wanted to stomp on his boot and slap his face. Composing herself, she dragged in a deep breath of the country air she should right now be celebrating the ownership of. “Congratulations…on your…win.” Two hot, fat, horrible tears rolled down her cheeks.
She twisted from him and hurried away as fast as her feet would go. She didn’t remember how she crossed the yard or crunched her way across the gravel drive to her old truck, also inherited from Grandpa Craig, parked in what had been shade hours ago. Now she wouldn’t only be sobbing before she climbed behind the wheel, but she’d be doing it in a smoldering hot vehicle.
Suddenly, she realized someone walked beside her. A glance from the corner of her eye showed those boots that were becoming a source of rage and a pit of busted dreams.
“Ma’am?”
“Just leave me alone.” Tears poured down her face now, and her nose was running too. She felt the tickle of snot reach her upper lip and dived for her truck. She whipped open the door and grabbed for her purse under the seat to pull out a wad of tissues. As she scrambled up and into the smoking-hot vinyl seat, she smashed the wad of tissue to her nose.
The man braced himself in the door.
“Thank you for your concern, but I need to go,” she muttered, trying to reach around his thick, muscled body for the door handle.
He didn’t budge, standing there like an old dog who couldn’t make up his mind whether to go in or out.
Out. Definitely out.
“What’s your name?” His low tone only made her cry harder. She didn’t need his pity—he beat her fair and square. What she’d like to know was by how much. Dollars? Thousands?
He waited for her answer, and she saw he wouldn’t let her drive away without telling him. Of course, she could back out and he could either jump out of the way or get run over.
She snorted a snot bubble, which she quickly slapped with an already soggy tissue. “Liberty Baker.”
He didn’t move or speak. She chanced a look at his face and saw those blue eyes fixed on her. Under any other circumstance, she’d want this man staring at her, but not right now when she was such a freakin’ mess.
“Look, I own the ranch next door to the Windswept.”
She stared at him through watery vision. “So?”
He made a huffing sound and the corner of his lips twitched. “So I have a hundred head of cattle and two hundred more acres of property now that are too much for one guy.”
“Congratulations,” she snapped, reaching around him. Her fingers brushed over the hard steel of his torso before landing on the arm rest she could use to pull the door closed.
“Wait…Miss Baker.”
“Ms.”
His icy blue stare lit on her face, making her wish she didn’t look like a drowned puppy.
“Ms. Baker, I could use a hand around here. It’s clear you wanted this land—you’re pretty broken up over it, and I feel bad about that.”
“You think you feel bad?” She opened her eyes wide at him.
With a sigh through his nostrils, he continued, “I don’t know what your plans are, but I could use a ranch hand if you’re not afraid of hard work.”
The wellspring of tears residing in her chest emptied—and was replaced by anger.
“Why would I try to buy a ranch if I was afraid of hard work?” She gripped the steering wheel, prepared to back over this man if he didn’t get out of her way soon.
He nodded. “I see that. Again, I’m sorry about the bid, but I’d like your help around here if you’re up for it.”
Unable to think about anything but the pain hollowing out her chest, she turned to the steering wheel and lay her head on it. It was dramatic, she knew. But right this minute, she deserved to take a moment for herself and not think about pleasing yet another man or making anybody happy but her.
She wasn’t happy.
Not only had she lost her hopes and dreams, but she had no home. She’d closed down her life in Raleigh and driven straight to Crossroads two nights ago, which she spent at the bed and breakfast outside town. She thought to take residence of the ranch house at once, not caring if she had to sleep on the floor because she didn’t have any furniture. Meanwhile, Redding lived in cozy luxury in their five-bedroom home with a sunroom and swimming pool and all the furniture she’d painstakingly picked out only so he could somehow fight it all away from her. What little she’d taken from the divorce, she’d sold to keep afloat.
Starting over was a bitch, and now it seemed crueler than ever.
“Liberty.” He drawled her name, and she realized she didn’t even know his.
Taking a deep breath, she eyed him, still hunched over the wheel. “A job?” she asked.
He nodded.
“On this ranch?”
“Well,” he looked around, “this place could use some improvements before I can put cattle or horses on it.”
She perked up. “Horses?”
He nodded again, hat tipping in a way that it shaded his eyes and stopped them from sparkling in the sun like two bright gems.
She laid her head down again. What options did she have? She needed a job anyway. And a place to live. Ranch hands typically lived on the land they worked.