hood as it approached the house at speed. Slowing just outside of what Taylor considered the driveway, the driver pulled in at an angle, the dust trail the truck had kicked up rolling forward and swallowing the vehicle. The driver waited for the majority of the dust to clear before stepping out. Hat settled low on his head, he gripped the front of the driver’s door in one hand and the cab in the other, leaning into the V created between the two. His eyes narrowed and the cords in his neck stood out.
“That’s my son,” Elaine said from behind Taylor.
No. No, no, no. This was not happening.
“Come on up and meet our guest,” Elaine called out.
Taylor turned around and, clutching the step railing, swallowed hard. “He’s your son?”
Merry eyes crinkled at the corners as the woman’s smile widened. “He is, yes. Handsome as the devil is dark, and stubborn as a mule to boot, but he’s a good man,” she added softly, maternal pride coloring her words.
Heavy footsteps made the stair treads vibrate beneath Taylor’s feet, stopping before the owner drew level with her. His presence loomed at her back, large and hot and strong. Déjà vu struck her and she almost laughed at the irony when the bourbon-smooth voice spoke into her ear.
“I’m sure there’s a very good reason you’re standing here, on my porch, on my land, talking to my mother.” His tone wasn’t hostile but it sure as hell wasn’t welcoming, either.
“Mind yourself, Quinn,” Elaine bit out. “Taylor Williams is a guest of the ranch.”
“I can’t...” Taylor shook her head and stepped aside in an attempt to create space between her and the man at her back.
Quinn Monroe.
She’d thought this place was a fairy tale when she’d arrived—too pretty, too perfect, too good to be true. The thing was, all of the original fairy tales had been told as warnings. With this being Quinn’s territory, that made him either the hero or the ogre. If she had to put money on which was more likely, he wouldn’t end up king of the castle.
Fairy tale, indeed.
* * *
“GUEST OF...” QUINN was rooted to the spot. All he could think was that she was here and her damn hair was still up. “Since when?”
“Since I rented her the bunkhouse last week.” His mom stepped to the edge of the porch and towered over him, her gaze boring into his in that parental way that brooked no argument. “You’re well aware I’ve been working to revamp it, from décor to the new septic system. My intent was to make it available as a rental for people visiting the area, so once we were done, I listed it on a couple of online vacation-rental sites. Is there a problem?”
He had clenched his teeth so hard he wondered if they’d cold-welded. “You didn’t mention that was your end goal, Mom.”
“Wait. You’re a Monroe,” Taylor interjected, looking at Quinn. “And, Elaine, you’re a Bradley?”
“Quinn’s father and I split right after Quinn was born. I married Alan Bradley before Quinn was two, and Alan raised him,” she answered, not taking her eyes off Quinn. “When you treat me like an actual business partner, son—” and no one missed the emphasis there “—I’ll reciprocate. Seems there’s something going on you’re not sharing yourself.”
She snorted and flipped her dishtowel over her shoulder, shaking her head. “This isn’t an argument we need to expose Ms. Taylor to.” As she shifted her attention to Taylor, her smile returned. “I’m truly glad you chose the Rocking-B Ranch for your stay. The cabin, formerly our cowboys’ bunkhouse, is about two hundred yards north with the barn situated just beyond it. It’s a lovely two-bedroom place built as a smaller version of the main house. The porch there is much closer to the stream, so you can leave the windows open and listen to the running water if it suits. Above all, it affords you—” she glared at Quinn “—privacy. I’ll walk you over now, if you’re ready. Quinn, be a gentleman and grab her bags.”
Taylor didn’t look at him, didn’t even seem to look at his mom when she spoke. Her voice was shaky but resolute. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Bradley. Given my unanticipated acquaintance with Quinn, I’m going to have to find another place to stay.”
His mother glanced between him and the woman. “I’m not sure I understand.”
Quinn rolled his shoulders. “She’s my client.”
His mother’s eyes flared wide with alarm. “You’re climbing again.”
His answer was a single nod. No, he hadn’t told his mother about Taylor hiring him to see her through recertification. He hadn’t wanted to admit he’d been forced to lean on his former profession to shore up their financials. Cattle prices were lean this year, and the first three semi-truckloads of yearlings they’d sent to the sale had averaged a paltry seventy-nine cents per pound. If the remaining three truckloads did the same, the ranch would break even, covering operating costs and land taxes. There’d be nothing left over, nothing to live on.
Not to mention the bank note that had come due.
Quinn pulled his cowboy hat off and slapped it against his thigh. Sweat beaded on his nape at the memory of the notice that had come on official letterhead via certified mail. The ranch’s operating loan was more than ninety days past due. They had thirty days to bring that loan current or the foreclosure process would begin.
He and his mother had put their heads together, trying to come up with some feasible option to raise the money. Short of selling off the equipment, which they needed, or the animals, which were their only source of income at the moment, they’d come up with nothing together—but, apparently, separate plans they hadn’t shared with each other.
And Murphy’s Law said those individual plans would involve the same woman.
He met and held his mom’s unblinking stare. “Private discussion.” The last thing he wanted Taylor to know was that he was desperate for her fee. It would undermine his authority, both in prep work and on the climb.
“Obviously communication isn’t a strong point between me and Mom, but it doesn’t change the fact you need somewhere to stay while we do the pre-climb work and then get your climb hours in.” She started to object, and he interrupted in a rush. “Truly, Taylor. It’s fine.” Before she could argue, he tipped his hat and spun on his heel, strode to the Toyota and stopped at the driver’s-side rear door. “Is it unlocked?”
Taylor looked at him, her face blank. “Your mom has a shotgun. I think she’s more a deterrent to thieves than the factory alarm.”
Quinn grinned and pulled the door open, hauling out one moderate suitcase and a small overnight bag. He looked in the truck bed and found three decent-sized army duffels. “That all your gear?” He shook his head. “Never mind. We’ll inventory what you brought later. I’ll bring those over after a while.”
“No worries.” Taylor’s voice was softer when she moved closer to Elaine, but Quinn heard her just fine. “You realize my staying here will be awkward, at best, and impossible, at worst.”
Elaine shrugged. “Your options in town are the six-room motel run by the Moots. He’s eighty-seven. She’s eighty-six. The motel was renovated in 1958. No wi-fi, no cable and no kitchenette. You could check out the dude ranch to the south, but last I heard, they were booked through Valentine’s Day next year. Beyond that? There’s nothing else within sixty miles.”
Quinn watched as Taylor worried her bottom lip with her teeth, rocking back and forth on her feet, sneaking looks between the truck and the general direction of the cabin. She settled her focus on Elaine. “I need to speak to Quinn, if you don’t mind.”
The woman gave a short nod. “I’ll go in and wrap up the last of dinner. Holler when you’re ready and I’ll walk you to the cabin.”
Taylor’s smile was small and decidedly noncommittal.