Backlash Tender Trap Aftermath - Lisa Jackson Page 0,10
hum of the refrigerator, the gentle whir of the tiny oven and the drip of the rain outside. Maybe Denver had left through the front door.
Usually after chores, if Tessa found a few minutes to herself, she enjoyed the time, but now, as she stirred decaf crystals into her cup and pretended to read the headlines of the newspaper spread all over the kitchen table, she was tense.
The overhead bulb flickered, strobing the chipped Formica, the yellowed layers of wax on the old linoleum and the nicked cabinets. The entire ranch was falling apart, and the disrepair was glaringly evident. Denver would soon discover just how bad things were. Maybe she should tell him—get everything out in the open.
Still wrestling with that decision, she walked through the corridor leading to the stairs but stopped when she noticed a crack of light glowing under the study door. So Denver had holed up in the office. No doubt he was already poring over the books—searching for flaws. Her fingers curled tightly over the handle of her cup. If it took every ounce of grit within her, she had to find a way to work with him and get through the next few days without antagonizing him. Her father needed this job. Since the fire no one else in Three Falls would hire Curtis Kramer.
She twisted the knob, shoving on the door.
Denver was right where she expected him to be—seated behind John McLean’s old walnut desk. Leaning over a stack of ledgers and invoices, his head bent, light from the desk lamp gleaming in his black hair, he worked, finally glancing up. “What?” His shirtsleeves were pushed over his forearms, leaving his dark skin bare.
An old ache settled in Tessa’s heart. She stared at him a second, and she had trouble finding her voice. “Making yourself at home?” she asked finally. Though she tried to sound nonchalant, as if she didn’t care one whit about him, there was a wistful ring in her words.
Denver leaned so far back in his chair that it creaked against his weight. Impatiently he stretched his arms, then cradled the back of his head in his hands. “I’m only staying a couple of weeks—to iron out a few things.”
“Such as?”
“Back taxes for starters.” His gaze shifted to a stack of unpaid bills. “Those next. And eventually the accounts with the feed store, hardware store—” He lifted a thick pile of paper. “Whatever it takes.”
“To do what?”
His eyes narrowed. “To clean up this mess. According to John’s lawyer, there have been all kinds of problems here—repairs that need to be made and haven’t, bills unpaid, you name it!”
“Every ranch has . . . cash flow problems,” she pointed out.
“What about that stallion that disappeared last spring—the best stallion on the place?”
Tessa cringed inside. She had hoped Denver hadn’t heard about that. “Black Magic was lost. But we found him again—”
“He wasn’t found. He just showed up.”
Her voice was tight. “It doesn’t matter. The point is, Black Magic returned and he’s fine!”
Denver’s lips twisted. “The point is that things are going to hell in a hand basket around here.” He thumped his fingers on a stack of past-due bills. “This place is drowning in red ink.”
“It’s not that bad.”
“Isn’t it?” His eyes flashed.
She bit back a hot retort. “Things are just beginning to turn around, Denver,” she said, ignoring the doubt in his eyes. “Tomorrow, when it’s light, I’ll take you around the ranch, show you the progress that isn’t recorded in the checkbook.”
His jaw shifted to the side, but he didn’t argue.
“A ranch is more than dollars and cents, debits and credits, you know. A ranch is horses and cattle and machinery and people working together on land that matters.”
One corner of his mouth curved up. “You haven’t changed, have you?” he said, his voice husky. “Still a dreamer.”
“I know what’s valuable, Denver. I always have. And sometimes it doesn’t show on a checkbook stub.” She gazed directly at him, wishing the strain near his eyes would disappear.
“You’ve been wrong,” he reminded her.
“I don’t think so—not about the things that really matter.”
His jaw clenched and he looked away—through the window to the dark night beyond. The desk lamp was reflected in the rain drizzling down the panes. “I should have talked to you a long time ago, I suppose.”
“It would have helped,” she replied, feigning indifference. He looked as if he wanted to say more. For a second she caught a glimpse of him as he had been years