The door opened and Ross’s secretary, a willowy woman with pale blond hair, eyes heavy with mascara and a glossy smile, carried in a tray of coffee, cream and sugar.
“Just set it on the desk, Nancy,” Ross instructed as he puffed on his cigar, gradually filling the room with bluish smoke.
Nancy did as she was bid, casting Denver an interested glance that made him shift uncomfortably in his chair. Even after three successful operations, he felt as if his burns were as red and harsh as when he was dragged barely alive from the fire.
The fire—always the fire. He had never escaped it. Not really. And he never would.
His guts churned at the memory, and he tried to concentrate on the plastic cup of black coffee Ross handed him.
“So, you think your uncle was getting back at you by leaving you the ranch?”
“Wasn’t he?”
“It’s over a thousand acres of Montana ranch land,” Ross said dryly. “Doesn’t seem like such a curse.”
“No?” Denver sipped the coffee. It was scalding and bitter. He didn’t really much care. “Why weren’t the back taxes paid?”
“The ranch has been in the red for the past few years.”
“I thought there were supposed to be huge silver deposits on the land,” Denver said, thinking back to those years of speculation, before the fire, when both his parents and his uncle had been excited at the prospect of mining silver from the ridge overlooking the ranch—the ridge where he’d lain with Tessa while a smoldering cigarette butt ignited dry straw in the stables far below.
“I guess the silver didn’t exist,” Ross said.
“Too bad,” Denver muttered. “What about the stock?”
“It’s holding its own, I think. Your uncle seemed to think that he was on the brink of turning things around.”
Denver doubted it. Ross was just giving him the sales pitch that good old Uncle John had peddled him time and time again over the past few years. Denver hadn’t bought it then and he wasn’t buying it now. “The stables were never rebuilt after the fire, right?”
“The insurance company paid reluctantly—claimed the fire was arson. The fire chief concurred. Unfortunately the building was grossly underinsured. The money only covered cleaning up the mess and adding a few stalls to the barn.” Ross squinted through his glasses. “John was hell-bent on suing the insurance company—claimed he’d been misrepresented, that he’d paid higher premiums than he should have for the amount of coverage. But he finally gave it up.”
“On your advice?”
Ross nodded and drew on his cigar. “What’s your point?”
“The point is that the McLean Ranch is little more than a few decrepit buildings, some rangy cattle, a few horses and acres of sagebrush.”
“Some people would see it differently.”
Denver leaned back in his chair. “Maybe. I call ’em as I see ’em. The place isn’t worth much. Let’s get what we can out of it and call it good.”
Ross sighed. “This is a mistake.”
“Not my first.” Tugging at his collar with two fingers, Denver wished this whole mess were over and done with. He didn’t need any reminders of the past.
Shoving a copy of the will across the desk, Ross said flatly, “There’s nothing you can do until the taxes are paid.”
“I’ll pay them.”
“Okay, that’s the first hurdle. Now, what about Colton?”
“Find him.”
“That won’t be easy.”
“There has to be a way,” Denver said wearily. “Last I heard he was still a United States citizen. Start with the State Department, a private investigator, the IRS and the CIA.”
“It’ll take time.”
Denver narrowed his eyes. “Maybe you’ll get lucky.”
“I tried writing him through that magazine he free-lanced for a couple of years back,” Ross explained. “Never received a reply.”
“Keep trying.” Denver glared angrily at the will. “I can wait.” He felt his jaw clench at his next thought. “Is old man Kramer still running the place?”
Shrugging slim shoulders beneath his jacket, Ross said, “Far as I know. But I heard John say once that Kramer’s daughter is really in charge. I can’t remember her name.” He crushed out his cigar.
“Tessa,” Denver bit out, her name stinging his tongue. After seven years, he still felt needlelike jabs of regret that had turned bitter with age. If he tried, he could still recall the taste of her skin that hot day. But he wouldn’t. No need to dredge up a past based on lies.
“Yeah, that’s it. John confided in me that she covers for her old man.” Ross leaned back in his chair and regarded Denver carefully. “Apparently Curtis Kramer has a drinking problem.”