Love Letters Volume 6: Cowboy's Command (The Love Letters)

by Ginny Glass

  Jane sucked in a breath and held it as she waited for what she knew was coming next.

  “You look a lot like him.”

  She’d been flummoxed when Mr. Haskins explained the nature of Dolores Keegle’s business. Even more galling was the fact that everyone in the area seemed to know exactly who her father had been. Jane would have thought the potentials too numerous to count.

  Indignation flared inside her and the air left her lungs in a huff. “Are you kidding me with this ‘one man’ crap?” She whipped out the air quotes for that one, but quickly dropped them. “I feel sorry for this Marlon Richardson guy, getting his name saddled with the legacy of this…” She blinked, too revved up to stop but unable to bring herself to say the word out loud.

  “Businesswoman?” her guest supplied unhelpfully.

  “She ran a…” Jane gestured wildly at the house itself.

  Clive unfurled his arms and rocked back on his heels. His hands came to rest on narrow denim-clad hips. Long fingers curled into his belt loops. “Whorehouse? Brothel?” His mouth curved into what appeared to be a fond smile as he glanced up at the wide wraparound porch, and his speech slowed to a slow Western drawl. “I’ve always be partial to bordello. Sounds so much more interestin’, doncha think?”

  Incensed, she glared at him. “How can you joke about this? This is a—”

  “Legally run enterprise?”

  “—travesty.”

  He blew out a breath that dared to sound long-suffering, and her anger at the situation bubbled over.

  “Of course you approve,” she sneered. “You’re a man.”

  “I am. The great State of Nevada seems to agree with me, though. From what I hear, there are plenty of women living here as well.”

  “And you see nothing wrong with having a—”

  “Cathouse?”

  “—business like this in your area.”

  “Never bothered me.”

  Jane rolled her eyes. “I bet you cut your teeth here. Tell me, did Mommy Dearest teach you what it means to be a man?”

  The smug smirk disappeared and his handsome face smoothed into a hard mask of disdain. “I won’t have you disrespect her memory like that.” The words came out low and clipped, each one vibrating with carefully regulated indignation. “Who do you think you are? What makes you think you’re any better than anyone?”

  A hot rush of shame scorched her cheeks. Jane knew she was being uncharacteristically judgmental about it, but she couldn’t back down. After all, Mr. Boland could afford to be smug, he hadn’t just discovered the only thing her mother wrangled on her ranch was a passel of prostitutes. She tipped her chin up in defiance. “I’d like to think I’m a little better than a prostitute.”

  “You’re free to think anything you like.”

  “I think you should go now.” She whirled and tried to stalk away, but he caught her by the arm and spun her back to face him.

  “You come swooping in to collect your inheritance and you have the nerve to try to pick apart her character like a vulture?”

  “How much character could a madam have?”

  “More than you’ll ever know. How can you vilify someone you’re never met for living a life you refuse to even try to understand?”

  “I think you should go now,” she said stiffly.

  “She inherited this place from her mother. This was all she ever knew. She felt like she never had a choice, but she tried to make damn sure you had one.”

  “I hear family businesses can really hem a person in.”

  His jaw tightened. The flash of anger in his eyes indicated a direct hit. “Not that you’d know.”

  “No, I wouldn’t know. I never had a family. She ruined the best chance I had for that when she gave me away.”

  He flinched as if she’d slapped him.

  She didn’t look back as she stomped toward the porch steps. “Now take your holier-than-thou attitude, saddle up and get off my land.”

  “I don’t think you’re one to talk about the holier-than-thou routine.” His admonishment nipped at her heels. Her spine stiffened. She pulled the keys Mr. Haskins had given her from her pocket and jabbed the key into the deadbolt. “Miss Jane?”

  Her fingers tightened on the doorknob, but couldn’t find the courage to face him. “You know my name?”

  “She talked about you a lot.”

  “At least she talked to you.” A hard knot of pain lodged in her throat. Closing her eyes, she tried to swallow it, but the damn thing wouldn’t budge. How was she supposed to deal with the revelation that her mother had spoken to everyone about her, but never bothered to speak to her? Pivoting, she took aim at the messenger. “Just go.”

  “I will, but I want you to know that my offer stands as is. I won’t get wrapped up in a bidding war.”

  The door swung inward, but his cryptic statement pulled her back. A puzzled frown tugged at her brow as she turned to look at him. “Offer?”

  “A hundred thousand is more than fair.”

  She tried to blink away her confusion but his words wouldn’t quite fall into place. “A hundred thousand?” At last it clicked. When she’d read the handwritten offer Mr. Haskins forwarded, she’d pictured someone older, a grizzled homesteader hell-bent on holding back progress. She never imagined she’d be dealing with this steely-eyed Marlboro Man for the new millennium. “You’re the neighbor?” The one who seemed to assume he was entitled to purchase her land. No lawyer, no formal offer. Just a piece of computer paper with the amount scribbled across it and his signature. He could have at least waited until she decided whether or not she was going to sell.

  He nodded. “Yes. And not that I expect it’ll make any difference, but—” he paused as he nudged the brim of his hat back and looked her square in the eye, “—your mama wanted me to have the land.”

  Jane barked an incredulous laugh. “If she wanted you to have it, why didn’t she just leave it to you?”

  His broad shoulders rose and fell in a negligent shrug. “I suppose she wanted you to have the choice.”

  His softly spoken words hit her like a punch to the gut. Gripping the doorframe, she fixed him with a deceptively bland stare. “Mr. Boland?”

  “Ma’am?”

  “Screw you, screw your offer and screw the horse you rode in on.”

  He froze for a second, but then a broad smile broke through. Chuckling, he shook his head as he gathered the reins in one hand. The worn leather saddle creaked, and his mount shuffled and shifted beneath his weight. He ran one broad-palmed hand over the horse’s neck. A sharp stab of something that felt suspiciously like jealousy pierced her bubble of indignation. His horse whinnied and the man’s grin widened until it rivaled the blazing late-afternoon sun.

  “Don’t worry, fella. Given the choice of the three, you’d definitely be at the bottom of my list.”

  A startled laugh escaped her, but she snapped her jaw shut the moment he cast his unblinking stare her way. “And I know who I’d want to be on top.” Touching the brim of his hat, he nodded. “Think about my offer, Miss Jane.”

  Jane ducked into the house and closed the door between them, shaken by the pull of his rumbling laughter. The fact that Clive Boland blew her preconceived notions of a grizzled rancher out of the water was only latest zinger in a day fraught with surprises.

  She’d come to Nevada unsure but intrigued. The letter informing her of the inheritance struck like a bolt lightning, setting fire to the dreams she’d pushed aside. An early-morning ascent a few days ago on Castle Rock’s Farewell to Arms route gave her the idea. A flare of hope burning in her belly gave her the gumption. The Reno area was one of the prime climbing areas in the States and now she owned land there. Land that had apparently been in her family for generations. Seemed foolish to turn her back on the opportunity her late mother’s bequest presented. She’d booked her flight to Reno the next day.

  Pushing away from the door, she took a tentative step into the foyer. Sunbeams streaked the wide-planked fl
oors and held dust motes captive. The entry was covered in deep burgundy wallpaper. Worn bits of flocking left traces of a fleur-de-lis pattern that was mirrored in a richly colored runner that led directly to a parlor. Every bit of furnishing appeared to be overstuffed, tufted or tasseled. On the coffee table was an antique bowl filled to the rim with more condom varieties than she knew existed. Mindlessly, she fished a couple from the jumble and clutched them in her hand as she admired the artwork. It was erotic, but surprisingly demure. And despite the abundance of velvet, silk and satin, oddly understated.

  For a whorehouse, Jane thought with a smirk.

  Clive Boland’s chuckle rumbled in her brain. The memory of his smile made her blood simmer and her palms itch with anticipation. In a lame attempt to outrun the unnerving rush of desire, she shoved the condoms into her pocket as she bolted from the parlor. Skidding to halt at the foot of the sweeping staircase, she gazed up the stairs, her heart beating an insistent tattoo. Her visceral reaction to the man who’d welcomed her to the Triple X left her unnerved. What she’d find at the top of the steps both compelled and repulsed her. Too wound up to deal with more emotional overload, she bypassed the business end of the brothel for the safety of what lay beyond the closed door at the end of the hall.

  What was once a dining room appeared to have been converted into an office. A state-of-the-art computer stood untouched atop an antique desk, the screen dark and shrouded with a film of dust. A wooden file cabinet stood sentry on the corner. Heirloom china and pewter filled a china breakfront. She wandered into a large airy kitchen, her steps slowing to a halt as she took in the large oak dining table jutting from the far wall. Her breath snagged in her chest as her mind automatically went there—straight to the image of her six-foot-something neighbor stretched the length of that scarred wood. Naked. Hard. Completely at her mercy.

  “Oh my God. Ten minutes in a whorehouse…” she muttered as she turned her back on the table.

  Her brain short-circuited when she caught a glimpse of the bedroom situated just off the kitchen. No red velvet and gold tassels there, only pale green walls as fresh as a spring leaf. The small room felt light and airy, but mossy undertones in the paint made it masculine enough that the elaborately stitched men’s boots in the corner weren’t the least bit out of place.

  The nightstand held a paperback and a framed photograph of a petite bleach blonde snuggled into a man dressed in a khaki police uniform. Lifting the frame, Jane pursed her lips and blew the dust from the glass. Her eyes narrowed and her heartbeat slowed to a dull thud. Her mother’s eyes sparkled as she gazed up at the tall dark-haired man. Dressed in jeans and a pale pink sweater, Delores looked disturbingly normal for a madam. But even more dismaying, the man at her side wore the same nose and dimple Jane saw in her mirror each morning.

  The frame clattered as she placed it back on the nightstand. Pressing her trembling hand to her lips, she whirled away from the photograph. Her once sluggish heart stepped it up to double time. Silence buzzed in her ears. Questions sat in her stomach like lead. Jerking open the closet door, she searched the contents for the answers she knew she’d never get. Plastic-shrouded uniforms hung in the closet next to a wardrobe that appeared to consist of tiny faded jeans and a rainbow of pastels. Dust and age clouded the plastic dry-cleaning bag covering the uniforms. From what Mr. Haskins told her, the man who wore them was long gone, but even months after her death, Delores’s shirts still smelled April fresh.

  Jane spotted pair of pale pink boots that matched the shiny black set on display, and her heart clenched. The brittle shell of bewildered disappointment she’d wrapped around her like a cloak disintegrated the moment she picked one up. Unlike their pristine companions, their toes were scuffed and battered, the stacked heels worn from years of use.

  A loud clap of thunder jolted her and the lights went out just as she reached for one of the boots. Choking on hurt and fear, she stumbled from the closet, out the back door in time to be blinded by a flash of lighting. Without taking time to lock the house, she bolted for her car like a frightened jackrabbit.

  *

  Mr. Boland. The only person Clive had ever heard called that before was his grandfather. His dad had always preferred to be called by his nickname, Slim. Not terribly appropriate considering the man had never even approached living up to that term. The only thing bigger than the man’s ego had been his waistline. At least Slim was better than the names the city kids had called Clive throughout school. Not a one was interested in making friends with a rancher. Much less the son of a rancher.

  They’d always assumed he’d stick to the family business for the rest of his life. They’d been right, though Miss Dolly’s long-lost daughter was certainly trying hard to put a kink in his plans. Ranching was a way of life. One that Clive could certainly appreciate, but not one that he wanted to spend the next seventy years slaving over. What he really wanted was to share his love and appreciation of the area with a whole new group of people. Make sure they really knew what was out in the Nevada desert and why it was worth protecting. The extra land would make it possible for him to expand and open a guest ranch.

  Which was exactly why Miss Dolly had wanted him to have the land. The woman had always been kind to him. There weren’t a lot of other children around the area and, when he was done with chores, there was little to entertain him. She’d always been out on her front porch with some great idea for an adventure. One day he’d be running around the ranch to complete a scavenger hunt and the next he’d be drawing pictures to illustrate her favorite book. He’d been young, but it hadn’t taken him terribly long to figure out what went on at the house next door. He just hadn’t thought it mattered much. She’d never once asked him inside or offered him company for the night—either from herself or one of the ladies of the house.

  Through the window, Clive watched a streak of light race across the sky. He braced himself the coming thunder. Sure enough, a few seconds later a crash shook the house. “Yep, that seems about right.” Guess he wouldn’t be getting much more work done today. Nothing left to do but sit down and wait for the storm to pass. That and reassure his old beagle, Marla, who’d attached herself to his leg the minute the sky turned dark.

  He couldn’t help but say a prayer of thanks when he heard the patter of rain against the roof. Summer storms were rare around these parts, and the crops were in desperate need of the added moisture.

  Another boom. The lights flickered for a second but remained lit. He thanked God he’d thought ahead and put in the upgraded electrical system for the main house. It’d been spendy but worth every penny. Sitting alone in the dark wasn’t his idea of a good time. Definitely not alone. He used to have Miss Dolly to keep him company. Her place tended to get hit hard with the power outages and she often drove over and sat with him until the storm subsided. He’d make tea and she’d tell him stories about some of the famous clients who’d come through the bordello decades ago.

  The woman had run a tough business, but around friends she’d been a quiet woman with the patience and composure of a saint. Nothing like the fireball who’d inherited the place and who seemed dead set on derailing his dreams. Who did she think she was, anyway? She’d never once visited or had any real contact with her mother. He’d been the one to check in on Miss Dolly every day, to read her books once her eyesight went, and the one who helped her keep the business going and out of the red. Yeah, the woman had given her child up, but that wasn’t so uncommon. Kids were adopted every day and they turned out just fine. Sure, she might have gotten the short end of the stick in that deal, but she seemed to have turned out just fine. No reason to get her panties in a bunch.

  The thought of her panties brought a crooked smile to his face. As much as she infuriated him, he had to admit she also turned him on. Her outlook on life could use a little fine tuning, but her curves and silky blond hair had his motor running. Rumors around town were that she was strictly a city girl from somewhere out in California. He figured the thought of t
rekking out to the Nevada desert, a hundred miles away from the nearest Starbucks, would be too much for her to even contemplate and she’d sell the place sight unseen. That was why he’d written up the offer in the first place. What would a nice woman like that want with a plot of land out here?

  Apparently the answer to that question was money. The kind the real estate tycoons were willing to put into a condo development or fancy shopping mall. How they were ever going to attract the kind of people who liked tiny apartments and chain stores to this area was beyond him. The beauty of living in the middle of nowhere was that there weren’t all those conveniences, if they could even be called that.

  A stream of light shone across the hardwood floor of his living room. Following the rays back, he stopped dead in his tracks when a car pulled in to his driveway.

  Visitors, especially unannounced ones, didn’t show up at his door very often. Deliveries were scheduled and friends were too smart to drive all the way out to see him before calling to make sure he’d actually be there. No point in making the drive to find out that no one was home.

  He waited a minute, figuring some tourist was using his driveway to recalibrate the GPS system. The doorbell disproved his theory.

  With only a small sigh, he managed to get out of the chair and make his way over to the door. After flipping on the porch light, he peeked through the little window. Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle. He leaned against the doorframe and tried not to look too smug. It was hard considering the edges of his lips were pulling upward despite his best efforts. He’d hoped he’d get the chance to see her again, but he never thought it would be quite so soon.

  “Miss Jane. To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit? Decide to try out that whole screwing-me thing?”

  “What?” Her stunned look said she’d completely forgotten the last words she’d said to him.

  “My horse, then? He’s out in the stable, but I’m sure he’d be happy to see you again.”

  “Very funny.” She shivered and wrapped her arms tightly across her chest. He immediately felt like a jerk. Standing upright, he took in the picture in front of him. She looked like she’d jumped into the pond for a swim on her way over. Not that he minded in the least. Her thin shirt clung to her body, accenting her breasts. Through the fabric he could see the black lace bra that managed to retain a small amount of her modesty. No matter how hard he tried not to stare, he found his gaze drifting from her face to her chest.