by Claire Marti
“I’ll take your word for it…” No need to argue, but no way. The foul-tempered woman in the barn was most definitely not a beauty like her graceful, feminine sibling.
“Here we are.” She stopped in front of a closed door, rapped twice, and opened it. “Dad, I’ve got someone here to see you.”
He followed her into a huge study. Wow, he’d never seen so many books except in a library. Along the far wall, built-in bookshelves were stuffed to the brim with leather-bound tomes. If he hadn’t known the ranch was successful, he would now by all the framed certificates and trophies on the walls and shelves.
A tall, rugged, strawberry-blond man rose from behind a massive teak desk, scattered with files and papers.
“You must be Holt. Harry told me to expect you sometime today.” He skirted around the desk and offered a firm handshake. “Did you find it okay?”
“He accidentally went to the breeding barn first and interrupted Sam.” Dylan laughed, apparently highly entertained about the situation. If she only knew the off-color joke he’d made and her sister’s furious reaction, she might not be so friendly.
Mr. McNeill barked out a laugh. “That must’ve been educational.”
Holt nodded and smiled. No need to offend the patriarch. Who was he to judge if the man allowed his brash daughter to run his ranch operation? From what he’d seen in Los Angeles, wealthy parents indulged their children all the time.
“If you gentlemen will excuse me, I’ll let you get to your business. I’ve got to get back to my studio.” Dylan strolled out of the room.
“Holt, can I offer you anything? I’ve got bottled water here in the mini-fridge or we can get some coffee?” Mr. McNeill asked.
“Water’s great. No need to make a fuss.” Go time. His movie producer boss, Harry Shaw, had warned him to seal the deal.
Mr. McNeill returned to the chair behind his desk and gestured for Holt to sit in one of the comfortable tan leather chairs facing him. “So, tell me what’s so urgent Harry insisted I meet with you today?” He steepled tanned fingers under his chin and rested his elbows on his desk.
Holt rubbed his hands on his thighs. Damn, why hadn’t Harry made it clear how much he’d shared with McNeill and also the nature of the favor he was calling in?
“Well, he probably told you his new movie is a large-scale Western.” When Mr. McNeill nodded, he continued. “Everything has been going smoothly in pre-production and then we lost our location site.”
“And what does that have to do with me?”
“Well, the ranch in Paso Robles we were planning on using was destroyed in a fire. Without the location, Harry’s worried the movie will go under. The budget is astronomical already and we can’t afford to pay too much for another location.”
Mr. McNeill’s brows drew together. “Harry wants me to invest in the film? Are you one of the producers? Is that why he sent you instead of asking me himself?”
Holt dug his fingers into his legs, working to remain calm. Damn Harry for tossing him into this situation. When Harry had asked him to help him out, he’d agreed without asking questions––this movie had to move forward. But Harry could’ve at least prepped Mr. McNeill. “I’m an associate producer and investor and also the lead stuntman. Did he tell you anything about our meeting?”
McNeill shook his head, leaned back in his chair, and crossed muscular arms over a broad chest. Shit. Even a body language novice could see he was losing the man before he’d even asked for the favor.
“Okay, here’s the deal. Harry wants to film on your ranch. Of course, he’ll compensate you for the time—”
“My ranch?” Mr. McNeill surged up out of his chair. He stalked toward the French doors overlooking a huge patio and sparkling swimming pool.
Holt rose to his feet as well, but remained by the desk. Harry had mentioned his friend had a short fuse. He addressed the older man’s back. “We’d just need the location for about four weeks, give or take, and we wouldn’t start until your breeding season was finished. That’s in about a month, right?”
“Do you know why I live here now? Why I left Hollywood? I can’t have the paparazzi buzzing around here—I won’t expose my family to that bullshit again.” Mr. McNeill’s voice rose as he turned to face Holt, his eyes narrowed.
Harry had mentioned that a decade ago, McNeill had been the biggest director/producer since Clint Eastwood. Then, after a tragedy on the set where his wife was killed, he’d turned his back on Hollywood, except for a few film investments. He’d bought Pacific Vista Ranch, an impressive two hundred and twenty-eight acres, only five miles from the Pacific Ocean. Holt didn’t know much more than that. Harry assured him Chris McNeill wouldn’t refuse, but now Holt wasn’t so sure.
“I’m sorry. Of course we’d have a closed set with only employees allowed on the property and security and…” Sweat broke out on the back of his neck. This movie had to happen. He’d invested every cent of his savings and if the film went under, he’d sink with it.
Mr. McNeill moved back to his desk. “Where’s Harry? Let’s get him on the phone.” The patriarch’s cheeks were red.
“He’s putting out some fires back in L.A., but feel free to call him. I’m sure he can answer any questions you have.” He damn well better.
Mr. McNeill picked up the phone on his desk and punched in a number. A second later Harry’s voice came over the speaker.
“Harry Shaw.”
Holt sank back into the cushy chair and jiggled his leg impatiently. Harry better have the answers because he was in over his head.
“What the hell, Shaw? I’ve got your man down here asking to film a movie on my ranch. Are you out of your freakin’ mind?” Mr. McNeill braced his hands on the edge of his desk and glowered down at the phone.
“Hey, Chris. I’m sorry I didn’t come ask you myself, but I had an emergency and Holt was able to step in for me.” Harry’s voice sounded nonchalant.
“It sounds like your life is full of emergencies. You know I haven’t been back to L.A. in over a decade and I won’t expose the girls to the press and everything that comes along with filming.” He gritted the words out with a clenched jaw.
“Just listen for a minute.”
“You’ve got sixty seconds. That’s it.” Mr. McNeill said.
“Look, this is the biggest film I’ve ever made. I lost my other ranch. I only need to use about fifty acres. I need the scenery. I need the accuracy. I can guarantee we’ll keep the location top-secret and hire extra security to keep out the paparazzi.”
“It didn’t work so well before, did it?” McNeill sat and rubbed his hand across his chin.
“Chris, it wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault.” Harry’s response was subdued.
“Do you need to film the stables or the horses?”
“Well, not the stables because this is a classic Western. We’ve got some horses we’re using, but we’d want some of yours out in the pastures, more like background. I can control the schedule. We can work around you. Off-season is quiet, right?” Harry’s voice remained remarkably calm.
“Yeah, yeah. But, remember I know how this goes. You can’t control everything and it could spiral pretty quickly. I swore to the girls they’d never have to deal with the movie industry again, at least not here.”
Holt remained silent and tried to keep up with the rapid-fire exchange. Obviously, the situation went much deeper than he’d realized.
Not that he’d really considered it.
“I get it, I do. But the girls are adults now, right? It’s been a long time since everything went down and I’m sorry about it all. You know I wouldn’t ask you if I had anywhere else to turn. But I could lose my ass over this film.”
Mr. McNeill got up again and stalked around the room.
“You there?” Harry’s disembodied voice called from the speaker.
“I’m sorry, but I just can’t do it. I could make some calls to a few other ranches we work with around the country. Maybe one in Texas o
r Kentucky could work?”
“Texas doesn’t work and Kentucky is too far. The whole story needs California topography and scenery.” Harry’s voice deepened a few octaves. “Chris, you owe me.”
Holt dragged his fingers through his hair, suddenly wishing he hadn’t cavalierly agreed to handle the meeting for Harry today. The men’s shared history was none of his business.
“Damn you, Harry. You’re putting me in a really tough position.”
“Take me off speaker and pick up the phone.”
Mr. McNeill glanced at Holt, as if he’d forgotten he was in the room. He grabbed the phone, stalked to the far side of the office, and turned toward the window. From the distance, Holt studied the man’s stiff posture, tension obvious in his broad shoulders. What would Harry do if the man refused to allow them to film?
Damn, what would he do? He’d turned down all other jobs for two months in anticipation of this production. More importantly, he needed the payout for too many reasons to count. McNeill had to agree.
“Alright. Alright,” Mr. McNeill said. “But, I want every actor, every gaffer, and every damn craft service worker to sign a non-disclosure agreement. With stiff penalties for breach. I want this place to have so much security the damn Queen of England could visit. And, if there’s one violation and the past is dredged up again, we’re done. You hear me?” He hung up and spun back to face Holt.
“Fine. You’ve got a deal. Have the lawyers draw up the paperwork and it better be ironclad, do you understand me?” Mr. McNeill didn’t look happy about it. The grooves bracketing the older man’s mouth had deepened significantly over the last ten minutes.
“Look, sir, I’m just here on Harry’s behalf. I didn’t mean to upset you.” Damn it, he felt liked he’d just kicked a puppy or something.
McNeill sat down behind his desk. “It’s not your fault. Harry should’ve come down instead of sending you to do his dirty work. Tell me about the movie at least, since Harry didn’t bother to. And call me Chris.”
Holt relaxed, grateful Chris wasn’t shooting him for being the messenger. “It’s an epic, probably the biggest western movie in decades. Mind you, I’m just the stuntman for Jack Hanson, but I always go through the scripts with a fine-tooth comb before I commit. Jack Hanson and Ella Roche and every other big-name actor you could imagine are in it. Hell, Clint Eastwood is even performing a cameo. Harry’s convinced it will bring back the glory days of Old Hollywood.”
“The glory days, huh? Damn Harry knows I always wanted to bring back the Western.” Chris’s shadowed eyes held a faraway look as he gazed out toward the windows again. “They don’t make movies like they used to anymore.”
Holt leaned forward in the chair. “The script will blow you away. You won’t regret it.”
Sam strode into the room. “He won’t regret what? Script, like a movie script?” Her hat was still tugged low, but Holt knew the question was directed at him. Well, shit. He’d hoped to avoid another confrontation with this daughter. Something about her made the hair on the back of his neck prickle. Why couldn’t the angelic one have returned instead of the red devil from the barn?
Luckily, before he had to answer, her father spoke up. He used a much softer tone than he’d used with Holt and Harry.
“Samantha. I’ll share everything with you tonight. We’ll have a family meeting and discuss it over dinner.”
Holt rose from the chair. “I should be going anyway.” He addressed Chris. “Do you mind if I drive around the ranch before I leave?” He could get a tour of the stables and other buildings another time.
“Why would you scout around our ranch?” She blocked his exit. Her boots were planted and her hands were fisted on narrow hips.
In the brighter light of the house, he noticed she was definitely as beautiful as her twin. The bone structure and creamy skin were there underneath the tan cowboy hat. But, where her sister was kind and hospitable, she was snippy and rude. Nothing inviting or appealing about this woman.
Funny how much personality could impact looks. When he was a kid, his mom had always lectured his baby sister, “pretty is as pretty does.” He’d laughed hearing his mom manipulating his sister to behave, but now he saw evidence of it in the flesh.
“Samantha, I told you we’d discuss it tonight,” Chris said. “Holt, feel free to drive around the ranch.”
Sam frowned, but stepped aside, leaving the doorway open for him to depart.
He extended his hand to Chris McNeill. “Thanks. I’m sure Harry’s lawyers will get you the paperwork and I’ll be in touch to schedule another visit soon. I’ll see myself out.”
He skirted around the woman like she was a rattlesnake ready to strike. Unable to stop himself, he grinned and winked at her. Maybe he could charm her? She curled her upper lip and sneered at him. Or maybe not.
Holt escaped down the huge hallway and rubbed the tense muscles on the back of his neck. Nice of Harry to toss him into the lion’s den. He didn’t know what had been worse––dealing with the father or the daughter. Probably the daughter. Maybe he’d get lucky and the McNeills would take an extended vacation while they were filming and he’d never have to see her again. Life was too short to deal with temperamental brats, even beautiful ones.
Her sister had obviously received all the good genes.
3
No way in hell would she wait until dinner to discuss this situation. Sam paused in front of her dad’s desk, struggling to contain the fury threatening to boil over. Her heart was pounding against her ribs and the back of her neck was on fire. She refused to turn and watch that annoying man stroll out of her home after whatever “business” he’d foisted on her father.
“Samantha, you can just calm down. I’m not discussing this more than once, so you’ll have to wait until dinner.” Her father’s expression was controlled, but she caught a glimpse of the tic in his left temple, a sure sign he was upset.
“I’m not going to calm down, Dad.” Her fingernails dug into her palms. “You have no idea how disruptive the guy was down at the barn––I don’t want him here. What is going on?” Despite her thundering pulse, she managed to keep her voice level and congratulated herself at her supreme self-control.
“Look, I need a few minutes to process it all. Please?”
Her dad sank into his wing-backed office chair and rested his forehead in his hands.
“Dad?” Her voice cracked. “Now, you’re scaring me a little bit.” The flames of temper licking at her belly extinguished. She crossed the office in three long strides and stroked her hand along his shoulder.
He lifted his head, then reached back and squeezed her hand with his large one. “Don’t worry. It’ll be fine. Let’s go for a ride, okay? I need a good dose of speed on Roman and would love to have my baby daughter with me.”
“I’m not the baby. Dylan and I are the exact same age.”
He smiled and his beloved hazel eyes crinkled at the corners. “No, you came out two minutes after Dylan, so technically, you are and will always be my baby girl.”
Her heart squeezed in her chest. Her dad was everything to her: father, mother, boss, and most of all, her hero. If going for a ride would alleviate the haunted look in his eyes, she would accompany him.
“Let’s do it. Why have a ranch if we can’t take our horses out whenever we want?” She returned his smile.
Together they strode out of the house and down the curving stone pathway toward the stables. Her favorite two hummingbirds––Betty and Susie––hovered at one of the numerous red feeders she’d set up. The sweet fragrance from the riot of colorful flowers and shrubbery helped her jangled nerves to quiet. If only the palm trees offered more relief from the damn heat.
When they crested one of the rolling verdant hills, she caught a glimpse of the deep blue ocean. A haze sat in the air from the Santa Ana winds, the staggering heat suspended over the horizon like a sandstorm. The breeze scorched her cheeks and she shoved her hat further onto her head. No need to fry her fai
r skin in this relentless sunshine. She scanned the skyline and mouthed a silent prayer to the weather gods for rain.
With the extreme temperature and powerful dry gusts, all it took was a spark to create a blaze capable of decimating homes, nature, and everything. Parts of Rancho Santa Fe still hadn’t recovered completely from when the Witch Creek fires in 2007 wreaked destruction throughout San Diego County. They’d only just moved to the ranch and if she tried hard enough she could still conjure up the acrid smell of smoke. Since the Santa Ana’s had kicked in unseasonably early this year, they had horse trailers ready down by the four large, thirty-stall barns, should they need to evacuate.
They ascended the incline into the smaller twenty-one-stall stable closest to the house, where the family housed their personal horses and Hercules. The wood-beamed ceiling was high and the entrances on each end were open, providing tons of natural light for the horses. Dust motes sparkled in the air and a few soft whinnies greeted them from the horses when they heard their arrival into the barn.
Princess Buttercup’s golden head poked out from her stall and Sam could swear the horse grinned at her in anticipation. She stroked the horse’s silky head and smiled into intelligent brown eyes. “Ready for a ride, girl?”
Buttercup whinnied and tossed her cream-colored mane in agreement. Her face was so beautiful—she was a palomino, with a white blaze on her forehead. Dark eyes always seemed to hold a glint of mischief and knowledge. Sam unlatched the gate to her stall and led her out to the aisle where she tied her and began to saddle her.
Her father mimicked her actions with Roman, his huge bay gelding. They worked swiftly and silently to prepare the horses for a ride around the ranch. Her dad would share the news in his own time. After seeing his earlier reaction, she wouldn’t push him.
“The track or the trails?” One of the things she loved best about Rancho Santa Fe was the network of riding trails running alongside the roads and ranch estates. Her neighbors could be seen most days riding along the lush tree-lined paths. As a teenager arriving in the new community, she’d been thrilled to learn a woman architect named Lillian Rice had designed the Covenant of Rancho Santa Fe back in the 1920s with the horses in mind.