him between the ears before he’ll pay attention.”
“He got hit between the ears, all right,” Cass sighed. “But it wasn’t me who hit him. ”
“Wait a minute—” But she cut me off with her next question. “Brandon Walkerton’s rich, isn’t he? I mean—he has more to recommend him, doesn’t he?”
“It depends on what sort of references you’re looking for.” I perched myself on the porch railing after making certain it would support my weight. “Cass, Brandon is very rich. There’s no denying that. Is that so important to you?”
Color rose in her face. Her chin thrust upward defensively. “What’s wrong with that? It isn’t so bad to want more money than you have.”
“No, of course not. Is that what you want so much, then—to be rich?”
Her smile was more of a grimace. “I wouldn’t mind it. Who would? But no—it’s not all I want out of life.” She lifted her hands expressively and slapped them down against her hips. “Look at me! I already turned down a small fortune.”
I frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, there’s some people interested in buying Smoketree.” She said it off-handedly enough, for what I thought was supposed to be a secret. “They said they’d give me money for school and the rodeo circuit if the deal went through. ”
“Give you money?”
“Not for free,” she said wryly. “I’m not stupid, you know. I know all about free lunches.” She grinned briefly. “No. They wanted me to talk Uncle Nathan into selling the ranch.”
I took a careful breath. “But you didn’t accept the offer—”
“Of course not,” she said in irritation. “For one thing, Smoketree isn’t mine to dispose of in any way, shape or form. For another, Uncle Nathan would never sell this place. Not to anyone. ”
Not even to Harper? So, she didn’t know. Or did she? “Well,” I said, “do what you want, just be careful in doing it. I respect your uncle enough to want him happy.”
She looked at me oddly a moment, then nodded. “I want him happy, too. But I also want me happy.”
“And Harper?” I kept my tone neutral. “What does he want?”
“Money,” she said flatly. “But don’t we all?”
Chapter Seven
The tennis game, even from a distance, sounded competitive. I very nearly went over to watch Brandon and Lenore slamming balls back and forth, then decided to stay right where I was on the porch. Cass had left, so I sat down on the porch swing and lost myself in contemplation of nothing in particular. And then Elliot Fitch’s companion appeared from the direction of the cabins.
She wore a clinging knit sweater and linen trousers that matched the beige of her fingernails. She had innate elegance and style; that much I could tell at once from my experience in the fashion industry. She was a strikingly attractive woman; Italian, I thought, with her dusky olive skin, black hair and eyes, and husky, accented voice.
She gestured toward an orange sling chair to the right of the door. “Do you mind? I will go in for breakfast in a moment, but first I hope you didn’t think me rude last night.”
A delicate gold chain glittered faintly against her throat. Matching earrings gleamed in her shoulder-length hair; she wore a wafer-thin gold watch on her left wrist. I shook my head. “I can use the company.”
“You are kind.” She arranged herself comfortably in the canvas sling. Her faint smile was rueful. “You must excuse me for last night. It was a long flight, and Elliot’s exuberance can be tiring at times.”
She said it with the fondness of a long-time friend, or a lover who is more than a bed-partner. It made the pairing even more incongruous, somehow.
I still sprawled in the swing, moving it idly with one foot pressed against the wooden floorboards. “He seems like a very nice man.”
“Elliot?” She smiled with the same fondness. “Of course. He is sweet. And very good to me.” She laughed softly. “He is exceptionally good company, but then so many people do not realize it. They judge him by what he seems, not by what he is.” Her gaze was level. “Women especially, who overlook his genuine goodness for other considerations.”
“A common enough failing,” I agreed, knowing I had done it often enough.
“I am Francesca,” she said in her husky voice. “Francesca Vanetti. And you, of course, are Kelly Clayton.”
I looked at her sharply. Her tone had been perfectly bland, almost inflectionless, but something flirted with the distracting accent. “I am,” I agreed neutrally.
“We have met,”