Reclaimed (6 page)

His problem? Scowling, he stared at her. She met his challenge, unrepentant. This was going nowhere, and he was done with it.

“Okay, Dre. You win. No more pickle talk.” He grabbed his half-empty glass of tea and took it to the sink. Snatching his Stetson, he made his way to the door. “But it doesn’t change anything. I said hello to her, introduced myself as a neighbor, and even made an offer on her property, if she needed an out.”

“You made an offer?” Dre’s voice caught him halfway out the door.

He glanced back. She stepped toward the door, incredulity lifting her eyebrows. Swinging his eyes to Tom, he caught the man mashing his lips between his teeth.

Bingo.

...and humble in spirit

He
had
started this. Time to go mend some fences.

Paul knocked for the second time, sure Suzanna was home. The Jeep sat outside the garage, and the side-entry door hung open. She was probably ignoring him. Figures.

He turned away, intending to try the side entrance when the doorknob rattled. Dressed in sweats and eyes red rimmed, Suzanna wedged herself between the door and the frame.

She’d been crying. Because of him? He had been aloof with her—okay, maybe cold, but he hadn’t said anything mean. Why would she cry?

Something burned near his stomach. Not guilt though. Resentment. If she couldn’t handle herself, she shouldn’t be here. She needed to run on home to the coddled city life she was accustomed to.

“Did you need something, Mr. Rustin?”

Just like that, she was as stiff as a branding iron, and the heat from her glare could have scalded cowhide. And Dre thought the woman was intimidated by him.

“Yes, ma’am.” Paul gulped back annoyance. He could be chivalrous, even if she didn’t deserve it. “You and I seem to be at odds. I can’t leave it that way, seeing how we’re neighbors, and you’re my sister’s friend.”

One well-shaped eyebrow curved upward. She stepped onto her porch, parallel to him. “I see.” Challenging him with a suspicious gaze, she crossed her arms. “What is it you’re really after?”

Whatever could the little spitfire mean? “Excuse me?”

“Since the day we met you’ve had an agenda, Mr. Rustin. Quit playing the gentlemen and just spit it out.”

“I’m not after anything, Miss Wilton.” Paul stepped forward, matching her glare. “You’ve had it out for me from the beginning. I only came by to introduce myself, and you opened fire on me. Perhaps
you
should explain.”

“I shouldn’t have to explain myself.” She drew her shoulders up, refusing to back down.

The timid woman, afraid of spider webs and creepy basements, held his challenge. She wasn’t weak at all. Paul studied her eyes. Blue—like a clear sky at noon on a summer day. Intelligent. Fierce.

“You’ve been after my property from the first day, Mr. Rustin.” Anger animated her voice. “I’m not going to be manipulated because you pretend to be a gentleman. I know your kind. So, hear me plainly. I’m not selling.”

I know your kind?
Paul’s pulse jumped while heat poured through him.

“Look, lady.” He leaned into her space. “I own over three thousand acres of prime grazing land, including river frontage. I don’t need your piddly two hundred acres. My offer that day was exactly what I told you—an out if you needed it. If you want to stay here, miserable and alone, go for it. It makes no difference to me.”

Suzanna flinched, and her crimson face lowered. Were tears pooling in her eyes? That was great. What had that verse said?

Kindhearted.

Backing away, she darted down the two steps and moved across her front lawn.

Well done, Paul.

His boots slapped against the cracked pavement of her front walk as he set out after her. She rounded the house and left the yard, heading in the direction of the barn. Paul’s long strides closed the gap between them.

“Suzanna.”

“Go away.” She kept her pace, refusing to look at him. Nearing the corral, her feet suddenly swept out from underneath her, and in the next instant she was up to her waist in mud.

Mud? It hadn’t rained in two weeks. Jogging the remaining distance, he stopped with a lurch. She hadn’t slipped. The ground had caved under her feet. Paul reached to pull her out of the pit while he surveyed the hole. Three feet in diameter, the sopped earth had dropped at least two feet.

Suzanna took Paul’s hand and turned to crawl out of the muck. The edge of the hole collapsed opposite her, mud plopping into the sludge, and then water shot skyward like Old Faithful.

“Whoa!” Paul yanked her to solid ground just as the fountain died back. Water continued to sputter, though it looked more like a gymnasium water fountain than a geyser.

Covered in mud and wet from the top down, Suzanna stared at the mess. Her face looked stoic, but her shoulders slumped.

“Guess we know why that water main was closed.” Paul tried to make light of it.

Her eyes moved to him, and giant tears spilled onto her cheeks. “You’re right.” She sniffed, shaking her head. “All of you are right. I don’t belong out here.”

Leaking pipes forgotten, Paul’s lungs emptied, and his shoulders dropped.

Suzanna lowered her eyes. “I don’t know why my dad left me this place. He left all of his cash holdings to my sister, and this”—she spread her hands wide—“to me. I thought he must have meant for me to have it, but I don’t know what I’m doing out here. I don’t belong, and I can’t do it.”

Paul’s heart slowed so that he was sure to feel guilt more acutely with each beat. “You’re doing fine.”

She laughed. A derisive, defeated exhale that said more than words. Taking her elbow, he eased to her side. Her shoulders shuddered, and she sniffed.

“Really, you are.” He pulled her into a one-armed hug, rubbing her arm. “Any woman who can stand up to me and Jim Calloway and Chuck Stanton will do just fine out here.”

She tipped her head into his shoulder—a sort of silent thank-you. He slid his hand to her shoulder and squeezed.

“Listen, Suz. This kind of thing just happens. To cowboys and city girls alike—it’s just life. I’ve got a backhoe for my Deere. I’ll come over tomorrow, and we’ll fix this. Okay?”

She glanced up at him. “Your deer?”

He chuckled. “My tractor. John Deere.”

“Oh.” Her head fell, and pink crept over her neck.

Paul squeezed her against his shoulder. “You’ll learn, kid. Don’t give up.”

She pulled away and swiped at the last of her tears, smearing mud over her cheek.

Paul bit the inside of his lip as a smile tugged at his mouth. “So, since I didn’t take a mud bath, I’ll go shut that main off.”

Suzanna turned, her eyes growing as she took him in. “You’re still in your church clothes.”

He looked himself over. Mud had splattered over his dark Wranglers, and his western button-down was smeared where she’d brushed against him. He was speckled with water spots that would probably dry brown.

“No worries.” He shrugged, smiling. “I don’t own anything that can’t go through the washing machine. It’ll be fine.”

She looked up at him, her expression pathetic—miserable. “I’m sorry, Mr. Rustin.”

“I told you it’s fine.”

“No, I mean I’m sorry...” She dropped her gaze. “I’m sorry I’ve been so nasty.”

Paul pulled his handkerchief from his back pocket. “We didn’t get off to the best start.” He brushed at the mud near her nose and then pressed the material into her hand. “It’s not all your fault. I didn’t know about Chuck and the others. Honest. But I have to admit, even without that, offering to buy your place probably wasn’t the best way to introduce myself. Will you forgive me?”

Suzanna nodded, and a small smile touched her mouth.

Fierce and Timid. Suzanna Wilton was a bit of a pickle. Maybe not the sour kind though.

CHAPTER SIX

Suzanna tugged on her earbuds and pushed pause. Sitting still, she listened. Yep. There had been a knock. Leaving her computer, she moved toward her kitchen door.

“Mr. Rustin.” She pulled the door open wider.

The man smiled, tipping his hat. “’Morning. Too early for you?”

Suzanna stepped back and swept her hand toward the kitchen. “Not at all. I work on Eastern Standard Time, so I’m up by five.”

“Eastern? Why?”

“I work for a resort company in Florida.” Suzanna followed him in and went straight for the coffee pot. She tipped it to him. “You a fellow caffeine addict?”

“I never turn down coffee.”

She laughed. “That’s what Andrea said.”

His grin spread wide, tucking a dimple into his left cheek. “Yep. That’s what our mother always says too.”

Suzanna smiled and moved to the sink to fill the pot. He wasn’t bad at all. How had she mistaken his friendly overtures for manipulation?

“So, Florida… how does that work?”

“I fill in reservation entries. Dates, locations. Really boring, mindless work.” She opened her coffee tin and inhaled the nutty smoothness out of habit. “But it’s a paycheck.”

He dropped onto a chair at her kitchen table. “How long have you done that?”

“About four years.” She leaned against the counter while the coffee gurgled and steamed.

He nodded, laying an arm on the table. A dozen questions bubbled to her mind. Had he always been a rancher? Three thousand acres—that seemed huge. How had he acquired so much so young? How old was he, anyway?

His face, though weathered from the life of an outdoorsman, looked to be not much older than thirty. His hair, cropped short and indented with the ring of his hat, had a few grays peppered near his ears. Her eyes dropped to the hand resting on her table. His ring finger lacked the pale markings of a wedding band. Had he ever been married?

Her thumb rubbed at her ring finger. It still felt empty. Turning to the fridge, she reached for the chain hidden under her collar and fingered the thin, simple band.

“Do you use cream, Mr. Rustin?” She hoped he hadn’t noticed the wavering in her voice.

“Paul, Suzanna. If we’re going to be friends, you should call me Paul.”

Friends? She spat nails in his face the first day they’d met, and he was still willing to have a go at friendship? Suzanna grappled with the anomaly.

Forget it. Maybe country boys were just different stock altogether. “Cream?”

“Only if it’s flavored.”

Weird. Jason hated the stuff, of any variety. He called it slime. “Sorry. I only have the plain kind.”

Paul held up his hand. “No problem. Just sugar, if you have some.”

Sugar? What a terrible thing to put in a good brew. “Sweet tooth?”

“Huge. Candy, soda, cookies.” He laughed. “I still put sugar on my cereal.”

Yuck. Suzanna ate her Grape Nuts plain.

“I have an affection for Lucky Charms,” he continued. “Just in case you ever wonder what to get me for Christmas. I can go through a whole box in a day.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Don’t tell me you drink the sugary milk when the cereal’s gone.”

“You bet.” He gave her a playful
duh
look. “It’s the best part.”

Suzanna took down her sugar tub and snagged a soupspoon from the silverware drawer. “Heap it in when I’m not looking.”

“Health nut?”

“No. Just not a sugar fiend.”

She hadn’t ever been, really, but she’d basically lived without it while she was with Jason. Suzanna grabbed two mugs and redirected her thoughts. Sliding onto the chair across from Paul, she wondered what to say next.

Two heaping spoonfuls drowned in his black coffee. Suzanna wrinkled her nose.

Paul grinned. “You said you wouldn’t watch.”

“That is disgusting.”

“Have you tried it?”

“No.”

“Then how do you know?”

Suzanna looked at his sugar-laced coffee and shook her head.

Paul laughed and took a sip. “So, did the mud hole dry up?”

Oh yes. The broken pipe. That was why he was here. “I haven’t been out there yet.”

He sat back against his chair, his posture easy. Likable. “I wanted to check the damage before I drove the tractor down here.” He tipped his mug for another swig and grinned. “Actually, I thought you’d like a go at it.”

“A go at what?”

“The tractor. Do you want to drive it?”

Drive a tractor? Was it a stick shift? Do tractors shift? Suzanna didn’t know the first thing about farm equipment.

“I wouldn’t—” She traced the handle of her mug. Paul was offering her help. Dignified help. A learning experience, which was more than a pat-on-the-head, I’ll-indulge-you kind of gesture. “I don’t know anything. Will I break it?”

“You can’t do anything I haven’t done myself.” He drained his sugar-with-coffee. “I’ll go look at the damage. Do you need to finish up?” He tipped his head toward her office.

She did. “I have about thirty minutes of work left, and then I can take a break. Will that be okay?”

Paul nodded. “Like I said, I wanted to inspect the problem first anyway. That way, I’ll know what else we’ll need to fix it. Are you okay with me poking at it without you?”

He was asking? During a single cup of coffee, he’d managed to blow away all her despised assumptions about him, and arrogant cowboys in general.

No, she didn’t mind. Help would be a welcomed relief.

“Miss Wilton.”

Suzanna froze, her hand still clutching the deposit slip. Though they’d only spoken twice, she knew that voice. It set the hair on her neck on end.

“Yes?”

“I’m glad to run into you today.” Chuck Stanton stepped closer, his black boots slapping against the tiled floor. “Did you get what you needed?”

They were in a bank, not a warehouse. Did he think she needed help reaching the deposit envelopes on the top shelf? “I did, thank you.”

“Good. We strive for excellent service, even out here in the sticks.”

Sticks. That was ironic. Only the windbreaks and narrow creek banks had trees; the rest of the prairie was as wide open as an empty stadium. Suzanna nodded, biting her tongue as she stepped away.

“How are things out your way?”

Her feet halted, and she forced her gaze back to him. The man was a bit on the strange side. He gelled his hair and combed it smooth; a style he must have found on a poster of
Grease
. She imagined a wifebeater tee shirt clinging to his broad shoulders under his silver button-down. And those boots? Never saw a speck of dirt. He was one confused, creepy man.

Why did he want to buy her land? She glanced out the full-length window at the front of the bank. Certainly, he didn’t drive that shiny Dodge down a dirt road much. The chrome on the wheels gleamed way too much to have kissed the gravel on a country road.

“Things are fine, thank you.”

“Having any problems?”

Like he cared. Actually, he did. His eyes glinted with a sinister hope that put her spine straight. “Nothing that hasn’t been handled.”

“Really?”

Nuts. She’d said the wrong thing.

“What’d you run into?”

“Just a broken pipe, but Paul Rustin helped me fix it.” She tilted her chin. “It’s good now.”

Stanton stared, rudely calculating with a cool expression. “That’s fine, Miss Wilton.” His voice set her jaw on edge. “Glad to hear my buddy Paul is making himself useful.”

Suzanna backed away. Her heart pounded, and her neck stiffened. How could a man make words that should have been kind sound so menacing?

Paul strode to his pickup with one loaded paper bag tucked in his arm. He’d caught up with Rodney down at the sale barn that morning, and they’d put together a sale bill for the end of the month. After lunch with his parents, he’d stopped at the farm supply store for some sweet feed. Holeman’s was his last stop for the day.

“Rustin.”

Paul dropped his groceries on the front seat and turned. Chuck smacked his way across the parking lot, looking like a missile trained on his target. Hanging a thumb on his jean pocket, Paul waited for the man to speak.

Drawing near, Chuck suddenly smiled and squeezed Paul’s shoulder. A little too tight. “How you doing, buddy?”

“Fine.”

“So I hear.”

He did, huh? Paul looked at him in silence.

“Hear you’re quite the handy neighbor.” Chuck crossed his arms and leaned against Paul’s Ford.

“Do you?” Paul arched an eyebrow.

Chuck nodded his slicked head and pulled himself straight. He stood a good three inches taller than Paul; he was taller than most, for that matter. Chuck loved to take advantage of that genetic quirk whenever possible.

“I thought we understood each other at the Fall Festival, Rustin.”

“How’s that, Chuck?” Paul crossed his arms, rolling his shoulders so they pulled at his tee shirt.

So he hadn’t been a linebacker like Chuck. Running backs weren’t exactly sissies. Not that any of that mattered twenty years past the glory days. Chuck had spent the majority of those years in an air-conditioned office in the back of the bank. Paul had been tossing hay bales, pushing cattle, fixing fences, and maintaining tractors. He wasn’t about to be intimidated by a man just because he had longer legs.

“Suzanna Wilton.”

Paul’s stomach clenched, and his brow dropped. “I don’t recall what you mean.”

“Listen, Paul.” Chuck balled his fists as he planted his feet. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. She doesn’t belong out there. She has no claim to it, and I’m not real keen on your interfering. You don’t want to help our cause, fine. But stay out of the way. The sooner she realizes she’s out of her element, the better.”

“Better for who?” Paul’s eyes pinched. “Fact is, Suzanna has plenty of claim on that property. It was her dad’s. It’s never belonged to you, and, as I recall, you never wanted it. Not when Mrs. Hawkins’s estate went to auction. Not when the feedlot put it on the market. What makes you think you’re entitled to it now?”

“I was outbid. Those corporations have unlimited funds. Something you can’t relate to because you inherited everything you’ve got. The rest of us have to pinch for ours.”