The Princess of Coldwater Flats Read online

  “I know my situation.”

  “Nobody’s going to help you,” he said flatly. “People don’t have money to waste. You’ve got a losing enterprise going there, and in my experience, women are too tenderhearted to make the really tough decisions in business that need to be made.”

  She turned slowly, her expression full of scorn. “What do you know about women?”

  “A lot. And they all react the same way.”

  “Do they?” One eyebrow arched.

  Cooper’s own temper was getting the better of him. Had Sammy Jo known better she might have been surprised. Over the years, he’d learned how to be a sphinx when it came to hiding his emotions. His ex-wife, Pamela, had cured him of ever showing any feelings. If he did, she’d pounce on him, carving up his heart in tiny little pieces, taking a part of his soul each time she succeeded in wounding him, fooling him yet again.

  “Yes, they do,” he said forcefully. “And just because you think you’re different, you’re not.”

  “Wait ‘til the feminists find out about you.” Sammy Jo’s nostrils flared in outrage. “They’ll hang you by your…‌well, I’m sure you get the picture.”

  “Insulting me isn’t going to save your ranch. There’s only one way to come out of this alive and that’s sell. Sell to the highest bidder.”

  Harsh words. Words it hurt to utter. Cooper clamped down on his emotions and tried to ignore the piquant face turned up to him.

  “You really are a corporate rancher, aren’t you?”

  That stopped him for a moment. “What does that mean?”

  “No heart.”

  “Bankers don’t care if you’ve got heart,” he observed tightly. “They only want cash. Now, can we go back and have dinner? I’m sorry to be so tough, but I can see there’s no other way with you.”

  “I’m not hungry anymore, Mr. Ryan,” Sammy Jo told him, her green eyes shaded in the half-light. “And I’m going to hang on to the Triple R. Just watch me.”

  “You’re too damn stubborn for your own good.”

  “Maybe so. But you’re wrong. I’m not out of options yet. There’s still another way.”

  He shook his head a bit regretfully. “No, there isn’t.”

  “Oh, yes, there is.” Sammy Jo swept away toward her pickup, her skirt billowing, the white sleeves of her blouse bright against the darkened sky.

  “What is it?” he called after her.

  She yanked three times on her pickup’s door, but when he started to come to her aid, she quelled him with a cold glance he could feel from ten feet away.

  “When I think of it, you’ll be the first to know…‌.”

  It was all well and good offering a challenge to the likes of Cooper Ryan, but Sammy Jo learned it was a lot tougher to follow through. Days passed with no relief as bills piled up, and she felt the unseen breath of Matt Durning of Valley Federal heating the back of her neck. The only positive note was that after surgery, Tick-Tock had come home minus a two-foot length of intestine but otherwise healthy, happy and still pregnant, and she’d been shipped home with a clean bill of health. However, the bill from Doc Carey hadn’t arrived yet, which was just as well since she had absolutely no way of paying it.

  Despair filled her as she trekked up Cotton Creek, searching for the reason the water had slowed to a sluggish trickle down below. As furious as she’d been with Cooper, she couldn’t fault his logic—though it nearly killed her to admit as much. She did need to sell.

  “Damn it all.” She sighed heavily, then swore more violently as her foot slipped through the mud into the stream. Cold water streamed over the top of her boot, filling it up. “Ecch!” she yelled, pulling it off. Picking up the mud-covered, sorry-looking calfskin boot, she poured filthy, brown water from it.

  Suddenly, she could stand it no longer. Flinging herself onto the ground, she stared at the dusky blue sky, then threw her arm across her eyes, fighting back the unaccustomed sting of tears. Why did it have to be so hard. Why? She’d wanted to hit Cooper Ryan for verbalizing the truth. It wasn’t his affair. He had no right.

  But he had spoken cold, hard facts, and though Sammy Jo had wanted to slam her fists into his broad chest and make him take them back, she wasn’t stupid enough not to admit the truth to herself at least.

  So, how, how, could she save the ranch?

  A meadowlark sang, sweet and pure. Sammy Jo listened dully, consumed with her problems. She was out of options.

  “Might as well sell the place to him,” she whispered, a lump hard in her throat. Better than letting Uncle Peter get his greedy hands on it.

  Rubbing her hot neck with one hand, Sammy Jo grimaced. Next week was the Fourth of July. She promised herself that if she didn’t have her problems solved by then, she’d go to Brent Rollins and have Rollins Real Estate put her ranch up for sale.

  Except she just couldn’t bear it.

  After a few more moments of self-pity, she jumped to her feet, scrubbing at her cheeks, angry with herself for giving in to despair. Yanking on the soaking boot, she gritted her teeth and followed the winding, gurgling stream until it slid under several felled aspens and twisted into a copse of trees.

  Sammy Jo climbed over a dry, beetle-infested log and fought against a canopy of twisting blackberry vines. Swearing, she pulled thorny branches from her hair and suddenly swept in a breath. Hidden in the trees, a beaver dam stood proud and strong, a magnificent structure of mud and branches, looking as sturdy as the Rock of Gibraltar.

  Pure pleasure shot through her as a flat tail slapped the water in warning. Instantly, ripples stood in the pool, the only remnants of the furry creatures whose heads had been sticking up only moments before.

  “Oh, ho,” Sammy Jo said. “So, you guys have been busy little beavers, huh? No wonder I can’t get any water down below. You little monsters have been hoarding it.”

  The only answer was the soft ripple of water where the stream continued, a weak stepdaughter to its robust mother now trapped in a huge, tranquil pool above the dam. The dam itself was mud and stripped aspens, and some of the branches were six inches in diameter.

  Sammy Jo enjoyed the moment, then reality slowly intruded again and she considered the extent of the problem. She needed the creek to run free and full. She needed the water for her fields.

  And the beavers weren’t planning to make it easy for her.

  Sitting down on a grayed stump, Sammy Jo tucked her chin into her palms and sighed. She’d never felt so tied up before. Action was her strong suit, and Gil had wound her up so good and tight she couldn’t breathe, let alone move.

  Absently, Sammy Jo watched a water skipper skim the pond’s glasslike surface. Gil. Her father. Who wanted the best for her, misdirected as his vision might be. He’d wanted her to marry. To start a family and have a man to help her run Ridge Range Ranch.

  A man. A partner. A husband…‌

  “A husband,” Sammy Jo said aloud, rolling the words on her tongue, tasting the idea. She shuddered. It was a terrible idea.

  Unbidden, a vision of Cooper Ryan’s strong arms filled her mind. She could see them so clearly, to the dark dusting of hair, the deep veins, the masculine hands. And his eyes. So cold and hard and blue, and yet, somewhere in their depths she’d seen more, a passion that had reached out and touched her.

  She clapped her hands to her face, horrified by her thoughts.

  A husband. Not a lover. Good grief. Whenever she thought of Cooper, she saw him in blocks of body parts. Hormonal influence?

  “Blast it!” Sammy Jo leaped to her feet, she’d never had these problems before. But that’s how she thought of Cooper, she realized with self-disgust. Arms, legs, eyes, hips…‌

  Shaking her head, she made her way back to the house, lost in thought. A husband. A man to share the running of the Triple R with. Someone strong, but not too strong, not as strong as Cooper Ryan anyway. Someone like Brent Rollins, or, if she was really in a pinch, Tommy Weatherwood.

  She inhaled deeply, closed her e
yes and fought back a stab of conscience. It could work. She could make it work. And, by God, if that’s what it took to save the ranch, she would make it work.

  THE PRINCESS OF COLDWATER FLATS — NANCY BUSH

  Chapter Four

  “A husband!” Tess clapped her hands to her sumptuous bosom. “Oh-my-God!”

  “Shh.” Sammy Jo glanced guiltily down the street as she and Tess sat on a bench outside the bank and shared deli sandwiches for lunch. “Keep your voice down.”

  “Who? Who? Who?”

  “I don’t have anyone special in mind,” Sammy Jo admitted.

  “You mean, you want me to help you pick one?”

  “God, no.”

  Sammy Jo deliberately bit deeply into her turkey sandwich. She should never have confided in Tess, and she wouldn’t have except that Tess had been teasing her about her drop-dead gorgeous neighbor who looked like heaven in denim and it was enough to afflict Tess with a serious case of “chills, fever and a desperate need for a long recuperation in bed.” To shut her up, Sammy Jo had changed the subject by asking if Tess thought it was time for Sammy Jo to find a husband.

  Tess’s dark eyes danced. “Is your sudden decision out of lust, or to save that ranch of yours?”

  “I don’t have the least interest in lust,” Sammy Jo declared.

  “I thought so,” Tess said, disappointed.

  “Gil made certain I’d be forced to turn to outside financial help. He did it because he wanted me to get married. After raising me like a favored son, he couldn’t trust me enough to make my own decisions.”

  “You’re pretty mad at him, aren’t you?”

  “I sure was.” She shrugged. “But maybe it’s time I got married, anyway.”

  She wrapped up the remains of her sandwich and threw a few bits on the ground for the birds skipping along the grass, then dropped the sack into a nearby garbage can. Tess did the same.

  “Well, I wish I’d been right about Mr. Cooper. I thought for sure he’d help you.” Tess sighed.

  “Mr. Ryan thought he was helping me by giving me some advice.”

  “Nobody who offers free advice is helping. Free advice is just what it’s worth—nothin’.” They walked toward the front doors of the bank. “You’re really thinking about marrying some guy just to save the Triple R?”

  “I’m thinking about marriage to get married,” Sammy Jo corrected firmly, though she knew it was a lie. A half-lie, anyway.

  “Well, you must have somebody at the top of your list.”

  “My dad favored Tommy Weatherwood.”

  “Oh, Sammy Jo.”

  Tess’s look of sheer horror made Sammy Jo grin. “Actually, I was thinking about driving over to Rollins Real Estate.”

  Tucking her arms beneath her breasts, Tess gave Sammy Jo a long look. “Brent’s been sweet on you since sixth grade. You be nice.”

  “What do you mean?” Sammy Jo demanded, affronted.

  “You better be serious about this, or someone’s like to get hurt.”

  Sammy Jo stared after her, openmouthed. She had no intention of hurting Brent or anyone else. Unless that last remark had been meant for her. “I’m not going to get hurt,” she muttered, striding toward her pickup.

  It was scarcely necessary to drive the five blocks to Granger’s Shopping Center, home of Rollins Real Estate, the local Safeway and various other shops, but Sammy Jo felt like having her newly washed blue pickup close by. Expecting the need for a fast getaway? she asked herself, pulling into an empty spot in front of the shoe repair shop. Across the street was Bentley Feed and Grain. Grimacing, Sammy Jo made a mental note to stop by soon though she already had a substantial bill there.

  A bell tinkled above the door to the real estate office. Ducking her head inside, Sammy Jo saw there was no one at the reception desk.

  “Hello.” she called, leaning around the counter. Presently, a flustered looking woman, Brent Rollins’s younger sister, Connie, appeared.

  “Hi, Sammy Jo,” she said. “I was moving some boxes around. Old files. Did you want something?”

  “I was looking for Brent.”

  “He’s sitting an open house down in Shady Glen, at 874 Dellwood Lane.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Any particular reason you want to see him?” she called after Sammy Jo, her curiosity apparently getting the better of her.

  Only to ask him to marry me.

  Sammy Jo didn’t bother stopping long enough to answer. She ground the pickup’s gears as she turned its nose toward Shady Glen.

  It was a stupid plan, but it was all she had. And anyway, marriage wouldn’t be so bad. Besides, Brent Rollins was just one name on the list of possibles. There were lots of eligible bachelors with enough cash to pull her out of her financial slump.

  Sammy Jo wrinkled her nose. That sounded so mercenary, but desperate times called for desperate measures. So, she’d start with Brent and work her way down. Next on the list, Tommy Weatherwood.

  “Ugh,” she muttered, smoothing back a strand of hair. She wasn’t that desperate. Yet.

  She thought of Cooper. The rugged planes of his face seemed to continually cross her vision. But he was off limits, out of bounds. She needed someone she could control, and if she were going to sell her soul, by God, it wasn’t going to be to some misogynistic, corporate demon with an attitude about women. Uh-uh.

  So, Brent Rollins it was.

  Pulling into the tree-canopied driveway of 874 Dellwood Lane, she felt her heart in her throat. She had to swallow several times to work up any saliva at all and was annoyed that she was so nervous. It was just Brent. Heck, she’d held him down in second grade and kissed him until he cried.

  “Piece of cake,” she murmured, cutting the engine in front of a salmon-pink bungalow that was just too perky for words.

  A quick self-assessment preceded her walk to the front door. She wasn’t a bad catch; Gil had said so often enough. She looked good and she was intelligent, quick and compassionate. With the Triple R as bait…‌why, any red-blooded, half-alive male looking to improve himself would jump at the chance to marry her.

  Except she was stubborn, willful and a general pain in the tail end. Her father had been clear on that, as well.

  “Brent knows your good points and your bad,” she told herself, rapping lightly on the salmon-and-white front door. She half expected Disney characters to answer.

  Brent himself opened the door. “Sammy Jo!” he said with genuine pleasure.

  She instantly felt like a fraud. “Hi, Brent. You got a minute?”

  “For you, an hour. A week. The rest of my life.” He grinned.

  “Yeah. Right.” Sammy Jo was unusually tongue-tied and she didn’t know what to do with her hands. She glanced around at the tidy living/dining area. The carpet was white, the walls a light lemon yellow. “How come I feel like I walked into candyland?”

  He laughed and shook his head. Sammy Jo wasn’t certain he understood her point of view, or whether he was just being polite.

  “What’s up?” he asked her.

  Brent wore a green polo shirt and gray slacks. He was Coldwater Flats’s only realtor and he favored the casual look, which was just as well since his clientele favored jeans and work shirts.

  For some reason, his very appearance slapped Sammy Jo like a cold shower. She was nuts. Completely nuts. “No reason,” she choked out, moving away from him. “How much are you selling this for?”

  “You in the market for real estate?”

  “Only if I’m selling,” she said.

  “You’d really sell the Triple R?” His brown eyes brightened with surprise.

  “When I’m six feet under. Why? You think there’s a market for it?”

  “You bet. I’d buy it myself, if I could. It’s one fine piece of property as you well know, Sammy Jo.”

  “What if you could buy it? I mean, what would you do with it?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Keep it like you do, I guess. Or at least try to,” he added hu
mbly.

  Encouraged by his unspoken complement, Sammy Jo walked through the bungalow’s freshly painted white-tiled kitchen. “That’s nice.”

  He cocked his head. “Something on your mind?”

  Sammy Jo leaned against the counter, bracing herself in more ways than one. Count to ten, she thought. Then dive in. Silence grew as she made the mental count. Gathering her courage, she said, “I’ve got money problems that you would not believe.”

  “Try me.” He was serious.

  “I could lose the Triple R if I don’t fix things soon.”

  “You need a loan?”

  She’d thought of that, actually, but Brent lived in a tiny two-bedroom house with the sister he’d practically raised himself. The real estate business wasn’t that great in Coldwater Flats. If he loaned Sammy Jo enough money to pay off her debts, she was pretty sure she’d swallow up most of his nest egg.

  “No.” She smiled with regret. “That wouldn’t be fair.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re rethinking my marriage proposal,” he said lightly, with just a hint of desperation that made Sammy Jo realize how important her answer was.

  “Did you propose to me?” she asked.

  “About a thousand times.”

  “I mean, seriously propose,” Sammy Jo said, her heart beating in her throat.

  That gave him pause. His gaze swept over her tense face. “Yes,” he answered quietly.

  “Well, then, I’d be a fool not to rethink it. You’re the catch of the day.”

  Brent grinned widely.

  “But I just dropped by to say hello,” she added hastily, backing toward the door. This wasn’t working. What had ever possessed her to think it would?

  “Drop by again soon,” he said, with just the right amount of accent to let her know he’d been reading her mind. Her face coloring, Sammy Jo made a fast exit after paying a few more complements over the salmon-colored house.

  She passed Tommy Weatherwood’s house on the way out of Shady Glen. Tommy himself was in the driveway, washing his glossy red Chevy truck.