A few years ago, however, they’d come back and asked if Adam could take it over. He’d proven to be a great bison wrangler in his early twenties, and the company didn’t have anyone to match him. Adam contracted with them, much to his father’s dismay—George had always thought he’d gotten screwed over by the Conservancy. Adam had rebuilt the sorting pens and working chutes on his dad’s property, then took on one herd, then two, then all three, and eventually made it into his own business. His dad kept running the resort. Noel ran the airport. Then, last year, when his father died, everything fell apart. Adam struggled to keep three businesses afloat by himself. But it was too much now.
His family’s tiny airport slowly came into view, and he pushed his shirtsleeves up and tightened his seat belt. He dropped his other wing just enough and added a little uphill rudder, eventually crabbing toward the gravel runway.
The island airport was tricky for most pilots because it looked deceptively flat, although in reality it was a slight hill and needed to be approached as if you were coming out of a ditch. But he’d been flying this since he was fourteen and could do it with his eyes closed. After one glance at the family’s tattered wind sock, and four or five more dips of his wing, he let his wheels descend and finally crunch on the ground.
The impact rose through his soles in that warm, familiar sense of landing home. The steering mechanism vibrated under his hands. Leaning back, he pulled the sixteen hundred pounds of steel to a bouncing, wheel-popping, teasing-the-air, exhilarating stop.
Dust swirled. Silence welled. He closed his eyes while sounds of regular life—birds chirping, the sound of Denny barking across the gravel—all dragged him gradually back, as they always did.
Slowly, he crawled out of the plane.
“Glad to see me, Den?” he asked, scratching his old border collie behind the ears. “You might be the only one today.” Adam shifted his backpack onto his shoulder and tucked his sunglasses into his shirtfront, then strode across the dirt expanse, past the cactus garden, across the meadow, and up his wooden steps.
At the faded back door, he ran through his usual routine: he stamped the dust off, let Denny in, grabbed yesterday’s mail off the kitchen counter, checked on Amanda, saw she was still sleeping, then flipped through envelopes as he continued his trajectory through the wooden house and into the resort lobby.
“Hey, Kell,” he said to his receptionist, pretending to gaze at an invoice that had just arrived.
“Hi, Adam. Thanks for coming back so fast.”
He glanced up to see her balancing on top of a swivel stool to reach a shelf above the mailboxes, giving him a clear view under her skirt. He quickly looked away, as he always did with Kelly. Although she flirted with him relentlessly, she was much too young for him. Plus, he was in no position to be thinking about women these days anyway.
“You, uh—” He ran his hand along the back of his neck and kept his eyes down. “You need a hand with something?”
“I need this container with some of our old receipts.” Her voice strained as she reached for a willow-colored box on the top shelf.
“Let me get it.”
He waited until she got down, then crawled up onto the stool and retrieved the box she was reaching for.
“So you brought in a new guest last night?” she asked from below.
At the mention of Paige, the nervous feeling that had started in his gut began gnawing upward, pressing against his lungs.
“Yes,” he said.
“I thought you weren’t bringing in any more guests? Isn’t this dude group going to be the last?”
“This was an exception.”
Kelly didn’t respond to that but instead reached for the leather-bound hotel registry on the opposite end of the desk and dragged it, like a boulder, toward her. The monstrosity had belonged to Adam’s father. Although Adam had finally convinced him to put everything on the computer, the thick registry still remained, filled out in Kelly’s loopy scroll.
“Amanda didn’t register the new guest in here,” Kelly said, running her hot-pink, gnawed-off fingernail down the ledger. She wasn’t getting along very well with Amanda and seemed to like pointing out her faults.
“It doesn’t matter anymore, Kell,” he said softly.
He didn’t mean to meet her eyes. But when he did, he saw tears start to well there, and he had to look away.
“Why don’t you take a break?” he asked gruffly, moving some things along the counter so he didn’t have to look at her. “I have some bookkeeping to do.”
“I’m fine. Take your bookkeeping to the back,” she said. “I’ll stay here.”
He headed for the cramped office he’d built between the lobby and the kitchen. It was about the size of a closet—really just part of the hallway—but it served their needs and kept a buffer between the house and work. And now between him and Kelly. And tears. And the inevitability of their futures.
Adam plopped down at his father’s oak rolltop desk and pressed his fingers against the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes against the last will and testament that sprawled before him. He’d read it at least seventy times, looking for loopholes that might let his father’s employees have something to keep.
He rubbed his forehead again and thought about the worst part of the whole thing—was he becoming just like his father?
George Mason’s cynicism, his distrust, his paranoia, his anger—Adam was starting to see it in himself. The older he got, the more cynical he got. And the more cynical he got, the angrier he got. He didn’t want to be this way. But dealing with his father’s debts and probate was aging him and making him similarly angry and bitter. And now with Amanda . . . he just couldn’t become that kind of father. George had been volatile, verbally abusive, always blaming. Adam knew George’s heavy drinking played a big part in that—as well as George’s years of blatant irresponsibility and gambling and womanizing—but he always worried there was some gene being passed down, too.
He pressed down the horrible awareness and scanned the will again. George had stipulated that Adam could keep the furnishings in the main house, the animals, and all the items in the garage, along with the box marked “Private” in the hangar. And, of course, the planes. Everything else would go into probate.
Adam’s chest tightened. At least he hadn’t lost the planes. If he and Noel did, indeed, have to unload the land, those Cessnas would be the only thing left. One was his and the other Noel’s, and they shared a Grumman S-2T they kept prepared with fire retardant that had been used for the island for years. He was surprised that his father had given them over so freely. Flying was a source of constant discord in their family.
Adam’s mother, Ellen, had been an airwoman in the military. And, although his father had initially fallen in love with her for her streak of adventure—so the story went—George later saw it as something to resent. George had resented her wildness. He’d resented her fierce independence. And he’d resented the fact that he’d had to stay on this land to keep it in her family. Of course, he’d made the best of it. He’d created an inn-like resort around the airstrip and made a living through the income it brought. But when the boys were born with their mother’s renegade spirit—that same spirit that longed to be free and propelled them into the sky as soon as they could reach the dials—George seemed to resent them all, both before and after her death. Maybe he’d been worried they’d all be free before he was.
Adam swiveled his desk chair and reached for his cell phone.
His buddy Bob picked it up on the first ring.
“One of the Grants is here,” Adam said.
Bob had been his father’s accountant for forty years and had always been a father figure to Adam. Even when George was alive, Bob was the one who’d taught Adam to hold doors open for women, helped him get decent car insurance, and knocked him hard once on the back of the head when he saw Adam grab a girl’s ass on the boat dock and told him never, ever to do that in public again. As an old friend of George, Bob als
o knew George’s indiscretions, his problems, his failings as a father. And he seemed to want to make them up to Adam.
“Is it Ginger?” Bob asked.
“No. One of the daughters.”
“Is that so? Huh. Is she at the resort?”
“Yeah. I gave her a place to stay.”
“What’s her plan?” Bob asked.
Adam relaxed in his chair. “She wants to put on some crazy wedding for Dorothy Silver, and then sell to her.”
“Dorothy Silver?”
“Yeah, do you remember her?”
“Who wouldn’t?”
Adam smiled. Bob always had a thing for old screen legends. He still had pinups in his den of Marilyn Monroe and Rita Hayworth, much to the amusement of his wife, Gert. “Well, the daughter, she, uh . . . she wants to use some of the land over the next couple of months and then wants me to sell to Silver, too, at the end of the summer. She says Silver is willing to pay double.”
The silence that followed confused Adam. He’d expected Bob’s normal bark of laughter, but none came.
“Bob?”
“Yeah, I’m thinking. Or maybe remembering. What did you tell her?”
“I put her off until Thursday, when MacGregor will show up.”
The lack of response made Adam more uneasy. Bob had been the family’s financial adviser for years, and Adam trusted him completely. The problems they had right now stemmed from Adam’s father ignoring Bob’s advice.
“So do you think it’s something I should consider?” Adam asked.
“I could call around and see how serious she is. But with no formal offer, no, it’s not something we should consider. I know you’re in a hurry. MacGregor is paying cash and ready to go—and probate always takes longer, so the cash will move things along. Let me think on it. Oh, hey, Gert wants to talk to you.”
He heard the muffle of a phone being passed.
“Adam, dear?”
“Hey, Gert.”
“Did you find the flatiron like I told you?”
“Uh . . . wait, flatiron? I thought you said curling iron.”
“No, I said flatiron. Girls of Amanda’s generation use flatirons, dear.”
Adam sighed. Amanda’s birthday was in just a couple of weeks, and Gert had been pushing him to buy her something. Amanda had been crushed about having to leave Alabama so quickly and had left many of her personal items behind. Gert had suggested a few things Amanda had lamented leaving, including a “flatiron.” He’d first pictured something you’d flatten clothes with, but Mr. Fieldstone had pointed him in the direction of hair products. And then he’d forgotten the term. He’d stared at curling irons the whole time, at their different “barrel sizes,” which confused him. Adam had ended up leaving in a huff, perplexed.
“I’ll go back,” he told Gert. He couldn’t let this defeat him. Certainly he could handle one teenage girl’s birthday present?
“Okay, write it down, dear: flatiron.”
“Got it.”
“Do you want me to get it for you? My hip’s been giving out, but maybe Bob could take me down the hill and we could—”
“No, no, that’s okay. You rest, Gert. I’ll get it. I promise.”
“And a card.”
“A card?”
“A birthday card. Get something nice, and write something meaningful inside. It might be hard for you two to communicate right now, but take this opportunity to write something nice to her.”
Adam nodded. Gert was probably right. He and Amanda had gotten off to a rocky start, but he just needed to try harder.
“All right, dear,” she said. “You take care.”
“You, too, Gert.”
“Maybe you can come over one of these nights soon for some red velvet cake. It looks like you’re losing weight. I’ll pack you a few dinners, too. Bring Amanda.”
“Thanks.”
Adam hung up and pinched the bridge of his nose to keep a headache from coming on. He was going to miss Bob and Gert. He’d always said he wanted to leave this island the entire time he was growing up, but now that it was becoming a reality, damn . . . he would miss some of these people.
He glanced out the tiny office window and did a double take at Paige Grant walking by. He wasn’t used to seeing guests—especially between dude groups—walk along the back way, along the planks that ran in front of the pine forest. Seeing her made his pulse race. Damn. That almost felt like good, old-fashioned attraction. He’d nearly forgotten what that felt like.
Back in his more randy, carefree days, he’d felt plenty of attraction. He’d enjoyed a string of females every summer, as far back as he could remember, because when you lived in a resort town, there were new girls every season.
As he got older, though, the “summer girls” became part of normal life, normal expectation, and Adam realized he had no taste for the local girls anymore. The local girls were around forever, while the summer girls were deliciously temporary. No strings, no messy breakups, no expectations of forever. Adam had had enough worry and responsibility in his life. He certainly didn’t need girls tipping the scales. So the summer girls grew up and became summer women. And Adam grew up relishing them. It had worked his whole life.
But ever since his dad’s first heart attack six years ago, he’d only had time for the most basic of actions and reactions: get up, take care of the ranch, haul feed, fix fences, take care of the hotel patrons, take care of the horses, rinse, and repeat. Impressing new women, or thinking about things beyond his fence line, never seemed to enter the picture.
But now, as he stared out the window at Paige, he remembered how she’d gotten his blood pumping the day before. How she’d made him smile. How he’d felt strangely protective of her when she’d encountered that intruder. How he’d felt bad when the lights clanked out at the hot tub and she’d been scared. How he’d felt that twinge of nervous empathy crawl through his arms when he’d removed that splinter in her foot . . .
He watched her walk along the back porch to her room—her arms loaded with two big bags—and suddenly wanted to talk to her again.
But some kind of sense kicked in, and he told himself to ignore her. His life was a shit-storm. He had no right thinking about, or looking at, a woman right now. Especially a woman to whom he could offer nothing. And especially a woman who wanted something from him, business-wise, that he couldn’t provide.
He rustled some papers, moved some things around on his desk, tried to concentrate on the month’s payroll. But as he glanced up at Paige through the window again, his blood started thrumming, his heart started working, and he took a deep breath.
Ignoring her was going to be like ignoring lightning.
CHAPTER 8
The next morning, Paige sprang out of bed, practiced ninety minutes of pranayama breathing exercises, went into her favorite hatha-yoga moves, then popped open her laptop. She was eager to get going on her renovation.
She was also nervous about seeing Adam again. But since he’d seemed busy with his own work this morning—she’d watched him head out to the stables when she glanced out the window while unrolling her yoga mat this morning—she decided to just stay focused on her own work and keep her head in the game.
First, she needed to chat with her mother. The fact that her mom wasn’t calling yet was good. It meant she trusted that Paige was doing fine. Which had bought Paige another twenty-four hours without having to get on the phone and mention Adam’s name. Ginger Grant was amazing at reading her daughters, especially when it came to men, and Paige was afraid of what her voice would reveal when she gave her mom a rundown.
Not only that, but she didn’t want her mom to read into her possible failure to get Adam to agree to the Dorothy Silver sale. Even if he didn’t agree, she thought she might be able to at least get use of the meadow for the gazebo, but she didn’t want to get her mom involved in the tug-of-war. She’d handle it on her own.
She piled her hardware supplies and groceries into her golf cart, then puttered a
cross the property. As soon as she got everything set up, she grabbed her phone and sat at Gram’s dining table.
“Mom? How are you? I haven’t heard from you for a few days.”
“Oh, darling. I’m sorry. I spent last night in the hospital.”
“What?”
“Now, dear, it’s nothing. Mrs. Terrimore from next door took me. It was fine. They monitored my heart rate and did an EKG and made sure everything was—”
“An EKG?”
“Paige, please. It’s fine. I’m fine. Now, how are you? How is everything going there with the esteemed young Mr. Mason?”
Paige winced at her mom’s judgment. Ever since they’d come up with this plan, she’d been calling Adam that, when she wasn’t directly warning and reminding Paige about his jail terms.
“It’s . . . fine. Wait—was this the same type of test they took last time?”
“It was different. So what’s he like?” Paige could practically hear her mom’s long fingernails impatiently drumming the kitchen table.
“Different how?”
“Paige, please. I’m fine. I’m the mom and you’re the daughter. You are not supposed to worry about me. I have lots of friends here taking care of me, and I promise to tell you if anything serious comes up. Now tell me about him.”
Paige made a mental note to have a talk with her mother’s doctors as soon as she returned. Obviously she’d never get the real story from her mom. The doctors had taken an EKG once before, when the chemo treatments had first begun, but it worried her that they were taking another.
“What’s he like?” Ginger pressed again.
Paige tried to turn her attention back to defending the boy her mother never knew she’d crushed on so hard. If Ginger had known, she’d have used it in their constant arguments regarding all the bad decisions Paige had made.
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