“’Bout time you got in here,” her grandfather greeted her on a wheeze.
Heather blinked at the frail-looking man lying in the middle of the hospital bed. Gone were the hair and the moustache. In fact, hair barely remained on his head in a bad comb-over. The once stout and sturdy man had been replaced by a body bordering on emaciation. Monitors and machines crowded around his bed like small statues paying homage, each one playing its part in keeping a dying man alive as long as possible.
She shifted her balance on her feet, ready to bolt, not sure if she felt up to talking with the living dead. Because that’s all her grandfather was now—a talking skeleton.
“Gonna stand there all day, or you gonna come over and sit with me?”
“I don’t know if I want to,” she answered truthfully.
A frightful chuckling sound emerged from between his lips. “At least you’re honest,” he said. “More than your father ever was.”
A padded chair sat next to the bed and Heather gingerly approached it, sitting although poised on the edge of it, ready to bolt if she needed to. She looked all around the room, everywhere really, except directly at him. She wrinkled her nose. The room smelled of lavender hiding the stench of decay.
“Do you know why I asked you to come back here?” he said with a wheeze.
She wavered on indecision, wondering if she should just leave. Vastly uncomfortable with mortality directly in her face.
“Well?”
“Because you’re dying,” she answered him blandly, finally committing to the conversation.
“A lifetime of smoking is gonna kill me at eighty-one.” The announcement was followed by a hail of coughing. His frail body shook through the fit until it passed, leaving him sweaty and pale. Heather took another look around the room, and the lingering taste of nicotine on her tongue suddenly felt disgusting and dirty.
“I’m glad you came. You’re the only grandchild I have. The last of the Harts.”
The words were whispered. Fatigue laced his voice. They pained Heather to hear.
“Dad’s still alive,” she reminded him in a slightly sarcastic tone.
Lincoln Hart waved that reminder away, like he swatted at a pesky fly. “Your father … disgraced me long ago. A wastrel of a man.”
Heather’s eyebrows rose. With that statement, she heartedly agreed. The summer they had visited the ranch had been the last of her happy memories, the last she had been a carefree, innocent girl. After that, she had lost everything, including her father.
“I’m hoping you’re not a wastrel of a granddaughter.”
The statement brought her out of her reverie. “Thanks, old man. Is this why I’m here, for your charming personality?”
Lincoln Hart cackled, or tried to. It came out sounding like nails on a chalkboard. “My great-grandfather built this ranch bare-knuckle. This is Hart land.”
“It’s just a name,” Heather murmured, eyes narrowing. “Thousands of other people have it as well.”
“Is that what you think, girl?” he demanded, though his weak voice sounded pathetic. “A name defines who we are, what our bloodline is. Your father shorted you on pride, and for that I won’t ever forgive him.”
She wanted to say that made two of them, but this man was nothing more than a familiar stranger. As was the house and all it contained. But she held her tongue and leaned back in her chair, folding her arms.
“So why did you bring me here?”
“Like you said, I’m dying. I want to make sure this ranch is in good hands. That it’ll last through the generations after I’m gone.”
Shock hit her. “Are you telling me you’re going to leave it to me in your will?”
“Maybe,” he muttered. “Maybe I need to find someone who loves the land.”
“What the hell? So if not me, then who?”
“You’ve met Tristan.” It wasn’t a question.
His name hit her between the eyes. “Oh.”
“He’s become the son your father should have been. I wish he had been mine. Then we wouldn’t be here talking.”
“Ouch. You definitely don’t pull any punches, do you, old man?”
“I don’t have any time left to pull punches.”
Heather sighed and narrowed her eyes. “What do you want from me? I know nothing about running a ranch.”
“Learn it.”
“It would take a lifetime to learn it.”
“So? I doubt you have anywhere you gotta be.”
That brought her up short, as if he had slapped her in the face. Truthfully, no, she had nowhere to go and nothing to hold her.
“From the looks of ya,” he continued, “you need some meat on your bones, you need to learn how to dress like a lady, and you need a bath ’cuz you stink of cigarettes. And I ought to know.”
It took a moment for the words to sink in, because Heather couldn’t believe what she heard.
“Listen, old man,” she said as she rose from the chair. She put her hands on her hips. “I don’t know who you think you are, but I have no problem driving away and never looking back.”
Lincoln Hart’s washed-out eyes narrowed on her. Once upon a time they would have frozen a man in his tracks, but all they did now was waver in long-lost intensity.
“You’ve got a hard look in your eyes,” he finally said, perhaps a bit sadly.
“What do you want from me? For me to spout some bullshit that life is hard? Of course it is, and the only way to stay alive is through cash. So, if you’re done criticizing my wardrobe and hygiene, then I think—”
“You stay for a month, I’ll pay you,” he interrupted without a hint of emotion.
Heather cocked her head. “What?”
“You heard me. How much? Five hundred?”
She decided to call his bluff. “A thousand.”
“For one thousand dollars, I expect you to learn five things about this ranch.”
“Five things? Like what?”
“I’m not gonna hold your hand, girl. Figure it out. Those are my terms.”
Heather thought quickly. She could use the money, and she could use a roof over her head for the next month. Hell, she could use the money selling this place would bring her. How hard would it be to learn five things about a ranch?
“You’re on, old man,” she said. “I expect cash.”
“Most women do.”
Chapter Three
Heather decided if this was to be a popularity contest where the cowboys were deciding the winner of the ranch, then she had it won hands down. After moving her suitcase and various boxes into the room that Mabel showed her to, Heather sat down on the feather-tick mattress to plan out her strategy.
It was clear the old man wanted to give her the ranch. Why else would he summon her? While she didn’t think he needed to justify his final decision to the workers, she recognized that she didn’t have all the facts. Clearly, Tristan Rogers was a man to be reckoned with. Twenty years ago he had a forceful presence about him that even a naive girl could recognize, and the years only enhanced that budding promise.
Of course she remembered when her Uncle Avery had died. Her mother had called her to let her know that Avery, only forty, had broken his neck in an auto accident on the ranch. It had been raining heavily, there had been a mudslide, and the truck had rolled. Tristan’s uncle, Simon, had also been in that accident, and when the news had come, Tristan had gone to Hart Ranch to help her grandfather.
He had never left.
However, whether Tristan Rogers knew it or not, she wasn’t about to let go of her inheritance without a fight.
Heather reached for a cigarette and lit one, taking a deep drag and holding it in her lungs for a moment before releasing it. Thoughts of Tristan put her on edge. Over the years he had crept into her mind whenever her mother or father would mention Hart Ranch, or when the vacation album had been out. Of course, once her father had walked out on them, those fond reminiscences had disappeared altogether.
The p
ast can’t be undone, and the sins can’t be erased.
Heather shook her head and deliberately steered her mind away from that door in her memory. It had been locked years ago for a reason. After another drag on her cigarette, she looked for a place to smash it out, and finally opened her half-filled water bottle to throw it in. She swished the water around to make sure the fire was out and then set the bottle on her nightstand.
A popularity contest would be no problem at all. She had learned years ago that men only thought with their cocks, and she had spent her entire adult life getting what she wanted by using her natural assets. Tristan Rogers didn’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell.
****
As efficiently as the ranch ran, Tristan sometimes found himself without pressing matters to attend, giving him time to think. Unfortunately, today was one of those days. Currently, he had a certain blonde bombshell on his mind, and damn if it didn’t rattle his cage. The promising little girl from the back of his memories had grown up into a sexy, eye-popping woman.
One dressed like a schoolgirl hooker.
Tristan frowned. Something had changed about her, something had hardened her eyes and turned her lips down at the corners. Didn’t take a genius to figure out that the years hadn’t been kind to Heather Hart.
He rubbed a little harder with the leather conditioner, probably more than he needed, on the pommel. He had spent the rest of the afternoon inside cleaning the saddles after seeing her again, needing the monotonous routine to regain control of his thoughts.
Twenty years ago she had been a wide-eyed little pixie that had caught him off guard as a young man. He had deliberately forced himself to not think about her because she had been jailbait. But now she was a woman, and his body had more than jumped to attention when he saw her again in her too-short skirt and too-tight shirt. His dick had just about turned to concrete in his jeans.
Tristan frowned then reached to adjust himself. Even just thinking about her made him hard. Damn.
He wasn’t a stupid man, despite a lack of higher education. Lincoln Hart had hinted he would inherit the ranch, but Tristan knew there was a sentimental streak inside the dying man. Lincoln wanted the land to stay in the Hart family, and so out of the blue the missing granddaughter shows up. He didn’t know what Lincoln had in mind but Tristan was surprised that Heather had shown up.
Tristan loved Lincoln Hart like a father. He respected the weathered man for all he had accomplished to bring the ranch into the modern age. Lincoln had a head for management that had served the land well, prospering while many surrounding ranches fell prey to various financial hardships. Tristan knew he could carry the ranch far into the future. Lincoln had taught him well.
Yet now he stood ready to lose everything due to the sentimental whims of death. He didn’t blame Lincoln for wanting the ranch to stay in Hart hands, but Heather didn’t seem the type of woman who would or could understand the intricate knowledge of a cattle operation.
Several hands started running to the main arena near the house. Tristan rose from his seat and wiped his hands, re-capping the bottle of leather conditioner. He looked out of the barn and saw the ranch practically deserted. He followed the loud music, which came from the arena, long abandoned since Avery and Simon died.
When he walked inside, he caught a glimpse of Heather Hart and stopped in midstride.
Fuck.
****
The sun had almost set when Heather left the house to make her way back down to the abandoned arena. She bypassed Mabel, who worked in the kitchen, and headed down the paved driveway. She had changed out of her schoolgirl outfit into Rio shorts and a tank that hugged her curves intimately.
As she walked, she turned heads. She could feel the stares of the ranch hands as each one noticed her. But then again, she had planned it that way and made sure she put an extra wiggle in her ass as she walked. The shorts, worn without panties, accentuated her flat tummy and the diamond ring in her belly button. The tank had a hard time containing her generous breasts. She was sleek, toned, and tanned—a lethal trio for any man.
When she got to her destination, she moved to the center of the arena and propped up her MP3 player, finding the warm-up song she wanted and hitting “play.” Heather started her exercise routine, knowing the men watched her. Part one of her mission had begun.
Her music was fast with a hard beat. Her hips swayed, and she made sure to put extra swagger into the aerobics for her audience. The dance steps were simple, repetitive, making it easy to lose herself in the music. For a moment, the audience disappeared, and she felt free.
As each tempo changed to match her workout, Heather immediately matched her dance pattern. She could only imagine what it looked like to the men, a girl humping and grinding the air. Sweat started to run down her temples, cleansing her skin. Maybe even cleansing more if she psychoanalyzed herself.
When the cardio was over, she panted heavily, glad to hear the slower strands of the music that would cool her down. She decided to forgo the abdominal routine, thinking the men couldn’t handle any more. They needed to be eased into having her around, to be teased into wanting her to stay. When she shut off the music, she turned around and saw about two dozen men watching her, mouths hanging open.
“You guys don’t get to ogle without participating,” she told them. “Next time you have to join in.”
Most of the cowboys chuckled or had the grace to blush, which she thought was cute. All shuffled out of the arena except for one man who leaned up against the wall, arms and ankles folded in a causal pose.
Tristan’s hat was pushed back on his head, and she could see one eyebrow raised. “It takes nerves to strut that body around a ranch full of horny, hot-blooded men.”
“Like what you see?”
“I’m not dead or gay,” he replied, uncrossing his legs and pushing himself off the wall.
“Good to know,” she answered back with a saucy toss of her head. Her ponytail bobbed against her back.
“Nor am I stupid. Don’t let the accent fool you.”
“Hiding a PhD under that Stetson?”
“Trying to hide my temper.”
“Why? Because you lust for my body?” She winked at him. “Don’t worry, most men do. I’m an aerobics instructor, so I’m used to the leering.”
“Shut the hell up, Heather,” he growled. “Are you trying to get raped?”
Before she knew what she was doing, her hand flew out to smack him across the cheek. In stunned disbelief, she watched her handprint turn bright red against his tan flesh. He stared at her for a full minute, his lips tight and compressed.
“That was a little uncalled for,” he said as he rubbed the tender area.
“A man should never make jokes about something like that.”
“I wasn’t. I’m just saying unless you want a lot of unwanted male company, you better put your dancing back in the can.”
“Excuse me, but this is an abandoned arena, and I’ve been invited to stay here by my grandfather, who is your boss.” She stressed that little reminder.
“Decided to throw around the name, huh?”
“No need, Tristan. I’m sure you remember it.”
They stood toe-to-toe, her hands on her hips and his crossed over his chest. It took her a moment to realize the electric charge that had sprung up between them, zapping her skin. The feeling surprised her, and she could tell he felt it too, by the way his eyes narrowed and how his body tensed.
He stood a few inches taller, and this close she could still see the young, good-looking boy from long ago in the handsome man before her. Faint little lines ran from his eyes. Grooves bracketed his mouth. He wore a cowboy hat, of course, a big gray one pulled low upon his forehead. It cast his eyes into shadow. His jaw had a day’s worth of whisker stubble that she bet would tickle her bare skin most deliciously. The idea of having him rub up and down her body caused her pulse to jump. She shifted slightly to ease the sudden tension between her thighs.
; “Hey, boss?” came a questioning voice from the doorway, causing Heather to jump slightly. She immediately stepped back from Tristan. “Some of us are gonna try to train that new horse. Want to rope the steer with us?”
Without taking his gaze off her, Tristan waved his hand. “I’ll be right there.”
“Boys will be boys,” she murmured, her voice husky.
“Ranch work is never done.”
“Then I’ll see you tomorrow.” She turned and grabbed her MP3 player, aware of his gaze following her every move.
Chapter Four
A heavy knock on her door made Heather sit up in bed, the covers all a tangle around her body.
“Rise and shine!” Mabel called in a cheerful voice through the door.
Heather squinted at the door, then squinted at the window which proved it was still night. Finally, she glanced at the clock.
4:00 AM.
“Heather? Are you awake?” Mabel knocked again.
In response, Heather grabbed the small alarm clock from the nightstand and threw it at the door. It hit with a thud. She lay back down and pulled the covers over her head, falling back to sleep almost instantly.
****
Five hours later, Heather came into the kitchen. She wore a short, kimono-style robe that barely covered her ass cheeks, and a lit cigarette dangled from her mouth. She opened the refrigerator, took out the milk, and poured some in a glass.
She turned around and saw Tristan filling the doorway.
“Can’t I wake up in peace?” she mumbled around the cigarette.
“You’re smoking in the house of a man dying of lung cancer,” he pointed out with a deliberate stare at her cigarette.
Heather took a drag and then blew it out slowly in his direction. “It’s not like secondhand smoke can hurt him any worse.”
But she turned around and stabbed the cigarette out in the sink. She took a long drink of her milk before moving to open cabinets, obviously looking for something.
A Silver Lining Page 2