Finding Hope (Nugget Romance 2)

by Stacy Finz

  “Maybe Rhys and Maddy will rent out that cottage they have on their property,” Tubby said. “The one Shep’s caretakers used to live in.”

  Owen nodded. “The chief’s also got that duplex up on Donner Road. But I think that might already be occupied.” The barber picked up the phone and dialed. “Connie, is the chief in? . . . Well, tell him to call me when he gets back . . . No, it’s not an emergency.”

  When he hung up, he said, “Too bad Sophie and Mariah have a year out until that Taj Mahal of theirs is built. You could bunk in their apartment, over the Ponderosa.”

  The men murmured their regret, and Griffin felt a trickle of guilt for not coming clean with the guys. “You done there, Owen? ’Cause I’ve gotta roll.” He had a meeting with Russ Johnson at one, and wanted to grab a burger at the Bun Boy first.

  “Yup.” Owen removed the cape and dusted Griffin’s neck with a soft brush.

  “Nice,” Griff said, admiring the cut in the mirror. “You do good work, my man.”

  “I would’ve liked to have taken a whack at those whiskers,” Owen muttered. “But I suppose that’s how you young people are wearing them these days.”

  Griff stifled a grin and paid Owen with a nice fat tip.

  “I’ll keep my eye out for you on an apartment. Nothing too expensive.”

  “Thanks. Appreciate it,” Griffin called back to Owen on his way out the door.

  Headed to the Bun Boy, Griff saw Lina pulling out of the square in her International Harvester Scout. She’d been working the reservation desk at the Lumber Baron when he’d left that morning. As she changed gears, the vehicle made a nasty noise and Griffin waved his arms over his head to intercept her.

  She pulled up next to him as he stood on the sidewalk, and rolled down her window. “Hi.”

  “Hi.” He just stood there, trying to catch his breath. The woman did that to him. “Your transmission’s slipping.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I could hear it when you shifted out of reverse. Park over there.” He pointed to a space close to the barbershop, where he could get a look under the hood.

  Lina parked and hopped out of the truck while Griffin did his inspection. “Where you headed?” he asked.

  “Home. Will I make it?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Oh great,” she said. “I need a new car.”

  “Nope. You just need a new transmission. When you got that tune-up, the mechanic should’ve noticed that one of the gears is broken.” All the more reason Nugget needed him.

  “What do I do now?”

  “I’ll give you a ride,” he offered. “If you can get the truck towed home, I’ll fix it for you. But we’ll have to order a new tranny.”

  “I’ll ask my brother about towing it. I think the nearest one is in Blairsden.”

  Hmm, one more service to add to his list. “I could try to drive it there, if someone follows me. Maybe your brother can do that.” Griff looked at his watch. “But I’ve got a meeting in ten minutes. Can we do it when I’m done?”

  “Absolutely,” she said. “There’s even dinner in it for you.”

  He smiled. She was so damn pretty. “Okay, let me grab my bike so I can quickly take you home.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll call Maddy. You go to your meeting.”

  “You sure?”

  She nodded. “There’s like a million people who can give me a ride. Seriously, I’m fine.”

  Yes, you are. And no good to his sense of chivalry. She was little more than a child. He handed her his cell. “Put your digits in there. I’ll call you as soon as I’m done and we’ll see about getting this beast to your house.”

  She plugged in her numbers and handed him back the phone. “Do you like enchiladas?”

  “Don’t worry about it, Lina.” And don’t get any ideas. “See you in a few.”

  When she started to walk into the police station, presumably to get a ride, he called, “Hey, lock your truck.”

  “This is Nugget, Griff.” She waved him off.

  He shook his head in exasperation and headed to the Lumber Baron for his bike. A few minutes later, he zipped down the highway toward Sierra Heights, a light breeze ruffling the back of his neck. If he had more time, it would be a perfect day for a long mountain ride. But Morris wanted him to do the meet and greet with Russ. A beginner’s course in conducting business transactions, Morris had called it. He’d given Griff specific instructions on what to do and say. All part of a strategy.

  He drove through the fancy scrolled entrance, past the empty security kiosk, and into the golf course parking lot. There, Russ waited in a BMW sedan with the engine running—probably with the air-conditioner cranked up. The Bimmer was this year’s model. Griffin believed you could tell a lot about a man by his ride. He pegged Johnson as sophisticated but completely unoriginal.

  Russ jumped out of the car as soon as Griffin pulled up, stuck out his hand, and introduced himself. “Hey, Griffin, great to meet you. I’m sorry Morris couldn’t make it, but I can’t wait to show you around. You’re going to love the Heights—everything we did here is top-of-the-line.”

  One look at the developer in his Brooks Brothers getup and Griff wished he would’ve worn better clothes. At least a pair of jeans that didn’t have rips in the knees. Other than the slick threads, Griffin noted that Russ was fairly nondescript. No taller than five-eleven with thinning blond hair and a slight paunch. But he had bearing and polish. Griffin would give him that.

  “You ready for the tour?” he asked. Griffin decided to hold back that he’d already been over the grounds a number of times.

  Russ led him up the overgrown walkway and started with the outdoor amenities—the pool, the barbecue area with stone pizza oven, and the golf course. They even took a turn through the empty pro shop and the “lodge,” a rec room with pool table, party space, and small theater.

  “Want to see a couple of the models?” Russ asked.

  “Sure.” Although Carol had offered several times, Griffin had passed up the chance. A house was a house, right? But if he decided to buy the place, he should be thorough. Know all that he was getting.

  The first house was called the “Pine Cone,” the smallest plan at 2,800 square feet. Griff could probably fit his Airstream in the master bath. Despite the soaring ceilings, twenty-foot windows, and gobs of granite, the space felt warm. He attributed the coziness to the log walls and oak floors. Griff had to give it to the builders; they’d managed to build a modern home with rustic charm.

  The next model, the “Sierra,” had a kitchen the size of Rhode Island and a loft with a wet bar and built-in for a sixty-inch flat screen. They’d done the basement up to look like a bunkhouse. Griffin assumed it was to show prospective buyers how many people you could sleep.

  “What kind of prices were you hoping these houses would fetch?” he asked Russ.

  “It depended on the lot and the home plan, but the low range started at about six hundred thousand dollars with the top range peaking at a million and a half.”

  Griff let out a low whistle. “People are willing to pay that kind of money for a vacation home?”

  “Sure,” he said. “Especially with the economy picking up. In Truckee and Tahoe they pay twice that much. During ski season, these homes could be rented for a few thousand a weekend.”

  Griffin doubted that. The nearest ski resort was a good thirty minutes away. That’s why people paid twice that much to live in Truckee and Tahoe. They could roll out of bed, onto the slopes. But to him that’s what made Nugget special—it wasn’t commercialized to appeal to tourists and rich ski bums. He did some half-assed calculations in his head, deciding that even if he sold the development’s eighty homes for half the price, he could make a tidy profit. That is, if he could get Sierra Heights for a deal.

  Morris had told him not to act too interested and to leave the negotiations up to him, which suited Griffin just fine.

  “Are you from around here?” Griff asked Russ,
wondering why he chose modest Nugget for such an upscale project.

  “Sacramento,” he said. “My partners and I have done a number of developments in the Sierra. But Tahoe and Truckee”—he waved his hand through the air—“have gotten astronomical. So we sought the next up-and-coming place. When we stumbled on this little jewel it was a no-brainer. This, my friend, is the next frontier.”

  “You may be right there, Russ.” Griffin looked at his watch.

  “I have the original business plan and the most recent property appraisal in the car,” Russ hastily added. “We could sit in the lodge, get out of the sun. I think you’ll be very impressed with what you see.”

  Griffin would’ve liked to have seen both, but feared that Russ would sniff out his interest and pounce. Compared to a guy like Russ, Griff was an amateur when it came to the art of the deal. With Denny it had been easy—just two regular guys making a mutually satisfactory transaction. But Griff didn’t know a damn thing about real estate or planned communities, and Russ, despite his obvious eagerness to unload the place, was a slickster.

  “I’ve got another appointment. But you could send that stuff to Morris.”

  Russ shoved his hands into his pockets and looked down at his shoes. “Look, I’ll be real honest with you. I got in over my head on this project . . . and with other things. I’m willing to let it go at a fraction of what it’s worth.”

  “And I’ll be honest with you, Russ. Fancy planned communities aren’t my bag. But I recently came into some money and am looking to make some good investments. I’m just not sure that in the short run this will pay off. Nugget is still pretty off the grid. I definitely think you’re on to something here, but I’m afraid you might be ahead of your time. And I don’t have the resources to sit on the place until the world discovers Nugget. I do really appreciate you coming all this way to show me around, though.”

  “No problem,” Russ said. Griff could smell the man’s disappointment and felt a little like an asshole for toying with him. But he’d carried out Morris’s instructions to a tee.

  As he got on his bike to leave, Russ remained at the top of the walkway, gazing pensively over the development. Griff texted Lina to let her know he’d finished his meeting. While he rode back to town, he couldn’t help but wonder how else Russ Johnson had gotten in over his head.

  Chapter 12

  Della James was a piece of work. Emily had been on the phone with the country-music starlet for less than ten minutes and already she wanted to rip her hair out of her head.

  Initially, Della said she wanted her cookbook to be a combination memoir of the time she spent on her “Maw Maw’s” farm and a collection of treasured family recipes. The project sounded fantastic.

  But after a little probing, Emily uncovered that Maw Maw had actually died when Della was four and her so-called family recipes consisted of the back of a Nestlé chocolate-chip bag. When Emily subtly mentioned that maybe they should focus more on, say, the truth, the singer went ballistic.

  “Let’s get one thing straight,” she’d told Emily, her voice dripping with condescension. “You work for me, not the other way around. You think I got where I am by letting people push me around? Stick to the kitchen, and we’ll do fine together.”

  Then, as mercurial as a schizophrenic, she switched into sweet-as-pie mode. “I’m going to donate all the proceeds from the book to the Make-A-Wish Foundation.”

  If Emily didn’t need the job so badly, she’d pass. But she’d dealt with divas before—chefs who threw fits, even food, when they didn’t get their way—and she could do it again. Even if every fiber in her body screamed, Psycho bitch. Run!

  Della continued to jabber incessantly about pictures. What she should wear, how she should do her hair and whether Steven Meisel would be available to do the photographs. As far as Emily knew, Steven Meisel shot fashion models and pop stars. Not food, which was a specialty unto itself.

  “Della,” Emily interrupted. “I know you have a busy schedule, so why don’t we quickly go over some of the dishes you’d like to feature in the book.”

  “Oh my God,” Della sang into the phone, her thick Southern drawl sounding fake to Emily. “Do you know how to make ambrosia? The kind with the little marshmallows? Ooh, and Miracle Whip.”

  “Sure,” Emily said tightly. “So did you want to go with a retro theme, then?”

  Silence on the other line, giving Emily the distinct impression that Della wasn’t aware that no one ate ambrosia salad anymore. Mostly because it was disgusting.

  “Um, I’m not sure. My publicist wants the book to be very family oriented. Very down-home.” Emily suspected that was because Della’s publicist was trying to save the little home-wrecker’s slutty ass. At least that was Donna Thurston’s theory based on an article she’d read in People magazine about Della breaking up the marriage of some real estate mogul.

  “Maybe I should wear Daisy Duke overalls on the cover,” Della, queen of the non sequitur, said. “I could be holding a pie or something.”

  Bored out of her skull, Emily put the phone down on the kitchen counter and let Della chatter into space, while she sorted pie tins.

  When she picked up again, Della was still talking. Emily finally said she had to go and that Della’s publicist should be in touch. Bye-bye.

  As soon as she hung up someone knocked on the front door. She hoped like crazy it wasn’t Clay, who she’d gone to extraordinary efforts to ditch. Emily had even given up her evening glass of wine on the deck for fear that he would be at the Hot Spot, or riding by on Big Red after finishing up a day on the range.

  Sometimes she got the impression that he wandered over with the express hope of bumping into her. Not because he was interested in her for any other reason than she was a good sounding board. Because God forbid he should tell his problems to a “beautiful woman” like Lauren. Call it petty, but that comment had rankled. Okay, if she wanted to be completely honest it had hurt her feelings. People had always considered Emily pretty, but that wasn’t the point.

  Sure, Lauren had the kind of looks men slobbered over. But how superficial can you get? If you couldn’t talk to the woman you were dating, what kind of relationship was it? Probably exactly the kind Clay McCreedy liked. Silent but sexual.

  She slid open the barn door to find Cody, not Clay, standing there. “Hi,” she said, beaming. “You’re not bringing more eggs, are you?” He’d already made an early morning delivery.

  “Nope,” he said, and brushed past her into the living room, plopping onto the couch. The boy reminded her of his father. Cocky. But so adorable that sometimes she forgot herself and wanted to cuddle him like she would’ve done with Hope.

  “We’re going to New York,” he announced, but didn’t seem happy about it.

  “Well, that’s exciting.”

  Cody shrugged. “Do you know how many taxicab crashes a year there are in New York? Like more than a hundred.”

  “Really?” she said. “I had no idea. Where are you getting your facts?”

  “The Internet.”

  “Hmm. You sure that’s credible information?” As credible as People magazine? “Cody, this doom-and-gloom thing is not healthy. How about focusing on how much fun you’ll have? The Statue of Liberty. The Empire State Building. I bet you never saw The Lion King. You would love The Lion King. And the food. The food is amazing.”

  “If something happens to my dad, will you be our next of kin?” Next of kin? The boy was spending way too much time searching the Web. “My dad would probably want my Uncle Rhys and Aunt Maddy. They’re not really related to us, but Uncle Rhys is my dad’s best friend. They’ve already got Sam and Lina, though, and are having a baby. So we might be too much work for them. But you don’t have any kids.”

  That last sentence made Emily’s chest squeeze, the pain so tight that it burned her insides. She had to turn away so Cody wouldn’t see her eyes well up with tears. “Nothing is going to happen to your dad, sweetie. You and Justin have nothing to worry
about.”

  “But you don’t know that for sure,” he insisted.

  “No one knows anything for sure, Cody. But I feel very confident in saying that a man like your dad is going to be around long enough to see you and your brother have your own babies. He’s a war hero, for goodness’ sake.”

  “Did you know he got the Silver Star?” Cody asked, temporarily sidetracked. “He said me and Justin can share it.”

  “Wow. That’s . . .” Emily trailed off when someone knocked. “Bet that’s your dad.”

  Cody bounced up to get the door.

  Clay stood at the entryway, scowling. “Code, I’ve been looking all over the ranch for you. I’ve got a cattlemen’s meeting and I need you at the house with your brother while I’m gone.”

  “You could’ve just called over here,” Cody said with impatience, making Clay’s lips quirk.

  “Get on home, kiddo. Justin’s in charge of dinner. You better hurry before he eats it all.”

  Cody took off like a shot, leaving Clay alone with Emily. “Was he getting in your hair?” he asked, and flashed her a grin that made her stomach do flip-flops.

  “He’s nervous about going to New York, afraid you’ll get killed in a taxicab accident, and he and Justin won’t have anywhere to go.”

  Clay took off his cowboy hat and brushed his hand through his hair. “I don’t know where he comes up with this stuff.”

  “The Internet,” she said. “I told him you’d be fine, that you lived through two wars.”

  The side of his mouth curled into a smile. “I’ll talk to him,” he said. “I thought he was doing better with the anxiety. New York must’ve set him off.”

  “When are you going?”

  “We leave tomorrow night out of Reno International. It’s just a short trip—three days. Where have you been? I haven’t seen you around.”

  I’ve been hiding from you because you’re dangerous to my senses. And to my ego. “Just crazy busy,” she said. “I got another editing assignment.”

  “Besides the French one?”

  “Yes. I’m juggling.” Despite her high-maintenance client, it felt good to be working full-time again. Because she couldn’t resist, she asked, “Do you know who Della James is?”