Undeniably Yours (2 page)

Horses? Not her thing. She didn't want a horse farm on her property; all those animals, all those strangers coming and going. She had no interest in this particular passion of her father's and no need of the money it might one day generate. The advisors had all counseled her to dump it. Meg couldn't reverse her decision now just because an honest, good-looking cowboy had asked it of her.

Except that her hard outer shell, already thin, was melting fast. Her gentle heart wanted to help him. “How much time?”

“Six months.”

She chewed the inside of her cheek. Six months was a long time, but not unbearably long in the scheme of things.

“That'll give me enough time to break even,” he said.

“What if you break even before then?”

“I still get six months to wrap things up.”

“What if you still haven't broken even in six months?”

“Then the farm stays open until I do.”

“No. That'll just give you an incentive to lose money.”

“Ma'am.” He waited until she looked at him. “I've never done anything in my life with the goal of failing.”

Quiet crackled through the room. Bo Porter stood at his full height, impressive, radiating purpose.

The decision hung in the balance in her mind, both sides evenly weighted. Meg measured him, trying to think, to be tough and impartial, to decide—

“Please,” he said.

And with that single word, the scales tipped with a ringing clatter in his direction. She nodded. “I'll give you six months, but that's it. Regardless of whether you have or haven't made back the cost of the farm by then.”

“Thank you.”

“You're welcome.” She'd honored his request, but they both knew she'd presented him with a stay of execution, not a pardon.

He made his way to the door, pausing on the threshold. “There's one more thing.”

“Yes?”

“I'd like for you to come out and visit the farm.”

“It's not necessary.”

“To check on your investment?”

Meg regarded him with skepticism. He must know she had employees far better qualified for that.

“Then come so that you can see what your father built,” he amended. “I'd like the chance to show it to you.”

Still, she hesitated.

“Sometime this week?” he asked.

“If you'd like.”

“You'll let me know when you're coming?”

“Sure.”

“Thank you again.” He dipped his chin and left.

Meg called herself every synonym she knew of for
cream puff
. She no longer had a driver, a kennel of hunting dogs, or an employee who specialized in guns. But she
did
still have a Thoroughbred racehorse farm, of all things. She released a gasp of a laugh. She hated horses!

A moment later one of the women who cleaned the house stuck her head into the office. “Ms. Cole?” She held aloft the severance package Meg had given Mr. Porter. “Did you want me to dispose of this? I found it in the hallway trash can.”

“No, I'd better keep it.” She sighed. “I'm going to need it again in six months.”

A
fter his meeting with Megan Cole, Bo drove away from the mansion and along Whispering Creek's paved back roads. When the horse farm came into view, he pulled his truck to the shoulder and sat motionless, his hands gripping the steering wheel, his attention traveling over the buildings and land.

A redbrick barn, one of the farm's five. A few cars. White fences that followed the land. A groom hand-walking a yearling. Texas prairie covered in places with pink wildflowers and bluebonnets. Trees.

The scene as a whole was simple. Plain. There was nothing about it that should have made him love it as much as he did. But he
did
love the farm.

Kids he'd grown up with had been into cars or rodeos or sports. It had always been Thoroughbreds for him. He'd started studying them at the age of ten. Back then he'd watched every race he'd been able to find on TV, subscribed to magazines, pored over library books, and just about memorized the studbook and auction catalogues.

In the years between then and now, many things had changed.
He'd grown up. Served overseas. Lived in various places. But Bo's passion for horses had never wavered.

As farm manager at Whispering Creek, he got paid well. But the reward—the reason why he put in twelve-hour days, woke at the crack of dawn, and thought about horses 24/7—was the work itself.

This job was his dream job. This ranch his dream ranch. As good as it would ever get for him.

His memory ran back over all the hours, effort, and sweat that had gone into building this place. He thought of the horses, each one carefully handpicked. He thought of the people who worked here. He knew them all well, and he understood just how much they relied on the farm for their income and how much pride they took in their work here.

Megan Cole had given him the worst possible news just now when she'd told him she planned to shut it all down. Ever since William Cole had died, he'd worried this would happen, but he'd hoped . . . he'd been hoping with everything in him that William Cole's daughter would decide to keep the horse farm running.

Scowling, he drove to the hay barn located at the back of the ranch's property, near the place where they stored equipment. He turned up the truck's radio so that he'd be able to hear the music within the barn. George Strait's “Troubadour” filled the air.

Bo pulled on his work gloves as he walked into the barn. He cut a glance across the space, then got busy stacking hay bales. Did the bales need to be reorganized? No. Was the boss expected to stack hay? No. But he needed to get his thoughts in order before telling his employees the bad news. When upset, he'd never been able to sit still—he'd always been driven to do something physical. He blew out his breath and heaved a bale up to shoulder height, then set it on top of a pile on his right.

He'd expected to dislike Megan Cole. He'd even kind of worked himself up for it, in the event that she told him she wanted to close down his farm. Dislike would have been the rational response, so it surprised him that his own reaction had been so different.

In the past, when he'd heard people gossiping about her, he'd pictured her as a Paris Hilton type of person. She did look rich. That, she did. She must have spent two hours getting ready this morning. Her makeup could have come straight out of a magazine ad. She'd put up her long blond hair in a twisted style that reminded him of bridesmaids. Her black suit probably cost more than a normal person's monthly salary. She'd worn earrings made out of yellow gems surrounded by diamonds. And she'd had on a pair of little black glasses.

The whole effect had reminded him of a hot teacher out of an '80s rock video. Blond hair, curvy build, ultra feminine—exactly his type. When he'd walked into the office to meet her, the whole room had smelled like her, like roses.

Bo paused, his breath coming hard with exertion. As much as Megan Cole had looked the part, though, there had been something about her that had struck him as strange for a rich girl, something he'd sensed more than seen. Over a lifetime of working with horses, he'd come to trust his senses.

Beneath her appearance he'd recognized a . . . What should he even call it? An uncertainty in her. A vulnerability.

Which was bad news for him, because he'd always been a sucker for vulnerability. Megan Cole had pretty features. Not gorgeous. Pretty. But that hidden vulnerability of hers—combined with the kindness in her eyes—had fascinated him more than beauty would have. Worse, it had made him want to protect her.

Which was laughable.
She
was the one with all the money and power.
She
was the one firing him from his job. And yet he'd stood there in the mansion's office, fighting the urge to help and comfort
her
.

He wondered what her life had been like, growing up in the mansion with no mother and a father like William Cole. Had her childhood made her fragile? Or had something else happened to her?

He wiped sweat from his forehead with his wrist.

She'd given him six months and the opportunity to pay back her father's investment in the farm. It was a start, but it was also the minimum he could live with. What he wanted? To keep the farm running for good. He was going to have to do his all-out, absolute best to change her mind.

He'd asked her to visit the ranch because he had a small hope that she might soften if she could see the place for herself, meet the staff, and spend time with the horses. Over the next few months he could take her out on rides, escort her to the owner's box at the track for races, tell her stories about the history of racing, explain to her why her father had liked it so much, show her the farm's earning projections over the next decade.

If he couldn't change her mind, he couldn't.

But for the sake of the people who worked at the farm, and for his own sake, he had to try.

Whispering Creek's housekeeper might wear Birkenstocks, but she had the brain of a CEO and the work ethic of an Olympic triathlete. Meg found Lynn in the cavernous kitchen of the big house preparing a lunch of egg salad sandwiches, baby carrots, chips, and fruit salad.

“Mind if I join you?” Meg asked.

“'Course not.” Lynn had on her standard uniform of leggings and an oversized T-shirt. Today's tee had a picture of a fading desert sunset, a howling coyote, and the words
Santa Fe
scrawled across the front.

Meg washed her hands, toed off her black high heels, and went to work slicing watermelon. Early April sunshine fell through the windows and illuminated her hands, the tan granite countertop, top-of-the-line stainless steel appliances, and the mahogany cabinetry. The beauty of it all should have calmed her. Instead, her surroundings only reminded her of how peaceful she
ought
to feel, how peaceful everyone else around her seemed to feel. They: normal. She: not.

After meeting with Bo Porter, she'd spent the remainder of the morning trying to reply to the numerous calls and emails she'd received from people at Cole Oil asking her for direction. Challenging work, since she didn't know how to answer a single one of their questions. She sighed and moved on to cantaloupe.

“Rough morning?” Lynn asked.

“Yeah. You?”

“No, hon.” She gave a mellow smile. “It's just been the usual.” Lynn dropped a handful of chopped pickle into the mixing bowl that held the egg salad, then went to work seasoning it. “So what's going on? I only got to talk to you for a second this morning.”

“I know, I'm sorry.” Meg had arrived at Whispering Creek late last night and greeted Lynn in a rush this morning before her first appointment. She set down her knife and propped her hip against the edge of the countertop. “What's happening is that Uncle Michael came to Tulsa two weeks ago.”

“Huh.”

“And he demanded that I come home. He feels strongly that Cole Oil needs me.”

Lynn sampled the egg salad with a fresh spoon. “Well, after your father's funeral you were able to return to Tulsa and go on with your regular life longer than I expected.”

“I was hoping I could go on with my regular life forever.”

“Bad case of denial?”

“I guess so.”

Lynn regarded her with sympathy. “You must have known you'd have to come back.”

“I did, I just . . . I honestly hoped it wouldn't be so soon. I quit taking Uncle Michael's calls, thinking that might buy me more time.”

“Voice mail has never stopped Michael Cole.”

“No. He was pretty hard to ignore once he showed up on my doorstep in the flesh.”

“I'll bet he was.”

“Since he brought me back to Dallas, he's had me at the Ritz with a team of men who've been trying their best to teach me the family business.” She released a wobbly laugh. “I was an art history major, for goodness' sake!”

Lynn tilted her head. Her short Julie-Andrews-in-the-
Sound-of-Music
hairstyle framed a rectangular, fifty-ish face without a wisp of makeup. “My advice?”

“Yes, please.”

“Fake it until you know what you're doing.”

“I've been trying, but I'm a bad faker.”

“A bad faker is better than a sissy. You're the majority shareholder of the company now, so you'll have to do.” Lynn scooped egg salad onto slices of brown bread. “I heard you've been busy firing people this morning.”

“Yes, and I don't recommend it. You do know, of course, that you and your staff and Mr. Son will always have jobs here.”

“I never worried about it for a minute.”

She told Lynn about the first three gentlemen she'd met with. “Then I tried to fire Mr. Porter, but he sort of refused to be fired. We agreed that he could keep the farm running for another six months.”

“I'm glad. I like Bo, and I like his brother Jake. I like a lot of the people who work out at the horse farm, actually.”

Together, they set the kitchen table, which stood in a nook ringed with windows. For as long as Meg could remember, lunch had been served seven days a week at noon sharp for the employees of the big house.

Just as they were finishing, Mr. Son entered, wearing his usual mechanic's jumpsuit and slip-on canvas shoes. He and Lynn were around the same age and had both been working at Whispering Creek for more than twenty years. As their landscaper, every tree, shrub, blade of grass, and flower came under Mr. Son's meticulous care. “Meg.”

She'd known him most of her life, and so she knew better than to try to hug him. She smiled and shook his hand. “Mr. Son.”

His Korean features firmed into stern lines. “You been firing people today?”

“I was just telling Lynn that her job—and yours—will be here for you as long as you want them.”

“You going to sell the house?”

“No.”

“Then why
would
you fire me?” His words turned heated. “You need someone to care for the grounds.”

“Exactly.”

He grunted angrily and moved toward the table.

Two of the women who worked for Lynn cleaning the house drifted in, welcomed Meg home, and made their way to the table.

“Sadie Jo's coming, right, Lynn?” Meg asked.

“I'm here!” Sadie Jo called from the hallway.

Meg rushed to her and fell into her embrace. They hugged for a minute straight. Relief and comfort caught in Meg's chest, causing tears to brim in her eyes.

Meg's mother had hired Sadie Jo Greene as her nanny shortly after Meg's birth. It turned out that Sadie Jo would become the best gift Patricia Cole would ever have the chance to give her daughter, because a blood disease had taken her life just two years later. If Sadie Jo hadn't been there every day of every year to raise and love her, Meg would have been consigned to a life of utter loneliness. There's no telling what would have become of her. She didn't even like to think about it.

Twenty-eight years had passed since Sadie Jo had started working for their family, and in that time Sadie Jo had turned into a plump eighty-year-old who resembled nothing so much as one of Sleeping Beauty's good fairies.

“It's so nice to have you home,” Sadie Jo whispered. “I've been waiting and waiting for you to move back. Oh, Meg.” She cupped her cheek. “I love you so.”

“I love you, too. It's wonderful to see you. You doing okay?”

“Very well. My, you look beautiful in that suit.” She scanned her from head to toe. “Where are your shoes?”

“In the kitchen.”

“Aren't your feet cold?”

“Nope, perfectly fine.”

“Come.” Sadie Jo took hold of Meg's hand with her knobby one and led her to the kitchen table, where the others were already passing the food. Once everyone had been served, Sadie Jo
spoke a blessing over them, then talk and easy companionship circled the table.

Meg stilled, struck by her love for Sadie Jo, Lynn, and Mr. Son. She didn't know the other two women well at all, but in this moment—why not?—she loved them, too. She might not have a mother, a father, a sibling, a husband, or a boyfriend, but she did have these people. At this precipice-like point in her life, they were blessedly familiar. They were hers.