Chapter Thirteen #2
They walked down the side of the barn, then Lil stopped at the edge of the driveway. “Meg and I are going out with Aubrey tonight. Want to come? Take your mind off things for a while.”
“You’re inviting me to girls’ night out?”
She shrugged. “We’ll make an exception for you. We’re leaving in about an hour.” Lil glanced down at her dirty front as if judging whether she had enough time to get ready, then grimaced. “I hope.”
“Thanks, but I have some other stuff to attend to.”
“The mortgage application?”
“That’s part of it.” Her expression shifted and he reached for her hand. “I’m also sifting through records to see what I can find about R. F. Weston. It’s all good.”
She looked like she was about to call him on the all-good part but instead squeezed his fingers. “I have to get this stuff in the washer.”
*
“You look great.” Gone was the dirt-covered woman who’d wrestled the lame calf to the ground and in her place stood a striking beauty in a flowy summer dress with dark hair hanging loose down her back.
He found both renditions of Lil sexy, although the dirt-covered one might be his favorite. He liked the idea of helping her out of her clothes before they washed up, something he hadn’t had a chance to do that day.
“Thank you. Are you sure that you don’t want to come out with us?”
Much as he’d have liked to spend the evening with Lil, Jordan had other matters to attend to. “I’m sure. Have fun.”
“We will. I told Aubrey all about the Wolf Den—”
He must have telegraphed his knee-jerk reaction to that bit of news because she laughed.
“We’re going to the Graff.”
“Watch out for cattle.”
She smiled and he thought for a moment that she was going to kiss him, but instead she turned and headed toward her truck where Meg was waiting, her skirt swirling around her legs as she walked.
He almost called out, Be careful, but there was no reason to.
The only danger he could think of was other guys hitting on her and Lil could handle herself.
He closed the trailer door and settled back on the sofa, pulling his computer onto his lap.
R. F. Weston had proven to be as elusive as Carl Jordan when it came to general internet searches, so Jordan had turned to public records.
Deeds and conservancies and grazing district agreements.
He was deep into the search, sifting through records, skimming most, reading others more carefully, when a call came in from a Montana area code.
He now answered all numbers, whether they were familiar or not.
“I’m calling for Jordan Matthews?” a woman asked.
He knew immediately that this was the call he’d been waiting for. “It is.”
“My name is Libby Weston of R. F. Weston. I understand that you would like to discuss a matter?”
“Yes, I would.”
“And that would be …”
Jordan thought that more than obvious, but he played along. “The Willow Creek Ranch. Your family once owned it.”
“I know,” she said dryly.
“You appear to want to own it again.”
Silence. For a moment he thought she might hang up.
“When do you want to meet?” she finally said, and he let out the breath he’d been holding as he waited for a reply.
“As soon as you’re available.”
“May I text this number?”
“You may.”
Less than twenty minutes later a text came in asking if he could meet at nine o’clock the next day, Sunday, at Connery Land Brokerage in Livingston.
As soon as his YES zipped into cyberspace, he opened his computer and continued searching records. She couldn’t want the place for sentimental reasons. Sentimentality wasn’t worth vandalism and animal cruelty. It had to be something else.
Jordan had checked the mineral rights and found that they had not been sold with the property. Ironically, those were retained by R. F. Weston. She could mine anytime with reasonable accommodations for him.
What did she want with the property?
He was about to give up and go with sentimentality, for want of anything else, when he noted a strange date on one of the records. He followed the link, squinted at the screen, then leaned back in his chair, keeping his eyes on the date, as if it would change if he looked away.
Holy shit.
*
“Not so many cowboys tonight.” Aubrey leaned back to allow the server to set the drinks on the table.
Indeed, the bar at the Graff was quieter than it had been the night Aubrey had pointed out Jordan to her, insisting that he couldn’t possibly have anything to do with her ranch. So much had happened since then.
“Do you consider that a good thing or bad?” Meg asked as she pulled her drink closer and stirred it with the plastic straw.
“I’ll get back to you on that,” Aubrey said as a hunk of a guy wearing a vintage-style cowboy hat and pants tucked into his colorful zillion-dollar boots sauntered through the door.
Lil grinned at Meg, then feigned innocence when Aubrey gave her a sharp look. “Some of us prefer the drugstore variety of cowboy.” She took hold of her drink. “Speaking of cowboys, how is yours?”
“My cowboy?” Lil asked automatically thinking of Dakota, whom she hadn’t seen since the day after the cow shooting.
“Jordan.”
“Who?” she asked innocently as a telltale flush warmed her skin.
“Good for you.” Aubrey grinned delightedly as she immediately and accurately read the situation.
“You have no idea.” Lil sipped her drink as she waited for the Jordan effect to dissipate. “It won’t last forever, but he’s exactly what I need right now.”
“Many women would echo that sentiment,” Aubrey said dryly, glancing up as the hunky guy in the wild boots approached their table.
“Ladies.”
Aubrey tilted her head. “Cowboy.”
He laughed, a pleasant sound that had Aubrey sitting a little straighter in her chair. “You haven’t recently seen a guy with a bright purple shirt, have you?”
They shook their heads in unison.
“We might have lost our fiddle player.”
“You’re with a band?” Aubrey asked.
“Old-time country music. Starts in ten minutes.” He touched his hat and after a word with the bartender, left the bar.
“At least he has an excuse for the outfit,” Meg murmured. “Want to go listen?”
Aubrey was already pushing her chair back as was Lil. They grabbed their drinks and headed through the lobby to the ballroom where the band was tuning up and a crowd was beginning to form. A guy with a bright purple shirt appeared through the door to the kitchen and hurried across the room.
The crowd grew and the dancing began. Lil, Meg, and Aubrey did not lack for partners, the only difference being that Aubrey knew many of hers, having grown up in Marietta before leaving for the bright lights of Dillon.
They left relatively early, well before the last number, laughing as they climbed into the truck.
They dropped Aubrey at her small house, then headed down the highway toward home.
Meg let her head loll on the headrest and Lil glanced over to see her smiling.
“What?” Lil asked.
“Aubrey’s right. Dancing is good for the soul.” She folded her skirt over her legs and her expression sobered. “Do you think we should have taken Jordan’s offer when he made it? Taken the buyout, found another property?”
“No.”
“Just checking.”
“Why?”
“Things have changed between the two of you. Obviously,” she added. “His life would have been easier if we’d done that. Our cow would be alive. And you guys could have, I don’t know, done what you’re doing without all the accompanying drama.”
Lil turned off the highway without answering.