Page 32 of Cowboy in Colorado

He nods, a slight frown marring his features. “Then what are you into? What is it you do?”

“I’m a real estate developer.”

“Pretend I’m an ignorant, uneducated country boy born and raised on a horse ranch,” he says, his tone wry. “What’s that mean?”

I can’t help a laugh, because that may be a technically accurate description of Will, but it far from captures who he is—I can tell that much just from the few, limited interactions we’ve had. “I buy land and buildings and…develop them. Turn them into something that makes a profit.” I wave a hand in a broad gesture at the world beyond the barn. “A typical deal for me would be, let’s say…there’s an old warehouse building somewhere in a city. Say that warehouse is in a section that’s currently not entirely developed, meaning sort of rundown, not super nice, but not crime-ridden or dangerous. And that warehouse is aging, but not dilapidated. I would go in and buy the building—I’d fight like crazy to get the lowest possible price, obviously. When I buy it, I have to have a vision for it, what I want to do with it. What I want to turn it into. I have to see beyond what’s there to what it could be. So say that warehouse has lots of exposed brick and I-beams and piping, lots of big windows, well…that would make a great condo. So I would explain my vision to architects and contractors, and they would give me a bid for what they think it would cost to do that, as well as a timeframe. I would pick the best proposal—based on estimated price and length of construction, and whether I like their past work. Then, we’d go to work, ripping the building down to studs, making it structurally sound, and we’d turn that old warehouse into a set of upscale condos. We’d have to market them, find our demographic of who would want to take the risk of buying a condo in a less than established area.” I wave a hand again. “Long story short, we’d sell the condos, and the area would start to trend, hopefully. Others would come in and develop other buildings, and once prices of real estate go up, we’d slowly increase the cost of the condos. In time, the amount of money we’d make on the condos would pay for the work it took to create them, and then we’d start turning a profit.” I pause. “But that’s just one aspect. We build new buildings, renovate old ones, buy already established profit-makers and try to make them even more profitable, there’s a lot of other aspects besides what I described.”

Will nods, musing. “So you gamble, too?”

I nod and shrug. “Yeah, for sure. If a project doesn’t pan out, if the contractors take too long and go too far over budget, if we can’t sell or make it turn a profit, then we take a loss, meaning less capital for the next project. You have to have a solid sense of risk versus reward, good instincts which you trust, and vision for what something can be.”

He eyes me. “And you think there’s something I have which you can buy, develop, and turn a profit on.”

“It’s not quite as selfishly avaricious as you make it out to be.”

“No?” His eyes and his tone dare me to contradict him, to prove him wrong.

I sigh, rolling my shoulders at the discomfort of my wet clothing and the bruises from the hail and the other rigors and damages of the insane day I’ve had. “I mean, at the most basic level, yes, that’s what I’m after. But—”

“But you want me to hear you out so you can twist it and sell it and couch it in terms of what I stand to gain from your plans for my land.” He shakes his head. “No. In the end, you’re looking to make a profit off of me and what’s mine. And I’m not interested.”

“But, Will—”

He gestures outside. “Hail’s letting up.” He jogs out into the storm, tossing words over his shoulder. “Stay here if you want, make your way back if you want, come to the cabin if you want, but I’m not discussing any kind of deal.”

When he said the hail was letting up, he meant, it was no longer coming down in big enough balls that they’d crush my skull like a grape, but it was still hailing, and hard. He jogs easily, head ducked, hail bouncing off his broad shoulders and back, and then he reaches the front door of his cabin and vanishes inside.

And I’m alone.

Gopher whickers behind me, and I can hear him munching on hay, hear his hoof stomping restlessly.

I don’t know if I have the energy left to run even another twenty feet—I’m all in, exhausted and aching and hungry and overwhelmed. I can’t even process all that’s occurred today. Yet, my only options are to stay here in this barn, alone, cold and wet and shivering and aching and hungry, or make the run through the hail…into a rustic cabin in the middle of nowhere, with a huge, wild, recalcitrant man who doesn’t seem to like me all that much, and is only really suffering my presence because he’s stuck with me.

My feet are killing me. Beyond killing me—I’m only now becoming aware of exactly how much my feet really hurt. These shoes are gorgeous, but even under normal circumstances; I’d take them off as soon as possible. This has been the farthest thing possible from a normal business day—I’ve ridden horses in them, walked through poop in them, run in them, faced down a brutish monster of a horse in them, and now my feet are telling me they’re absolutely done with wearing these stupid, beautiful, fashionable heels.

But, looking out at the ground I have to cross, I dare not take them off. The earth is carpeted in hail, and there’s no way I’ll make it across barefoot. By god, it’s still raining so hard even if it weren’t for the hail, this storm would be hazardous to be out in—the rain is so thick I can barely make out the cabin twenty feet away.

I groan out loud, knowing I’m faced with another no-choice situation. Staying here alone in this barn is not an option, leaving the barn to find the Big House and my car and the rest of civilization is even more clearly not an option…which Will knew when he left me here. It was his way of making sure I knew he was dead serious about not even being willing to hear me out. No discussion, or I’d be out on my own—that was the subtext of his actions.

I draw in a breath, steady myself mentally, summoning the courage necessary to leave the shelter of this barn.

And then I jog, to the best of my ability, on three-inch heels and aching, screaming, blistered, agony-racked feet, into the thunder and lightning, into the hail and the rain. Within steps, I’m soaked again—I’d sort of started to dry out a little, but within an instant I am utterly soaked, water pooling in my shoes, sluicing down my face, down my back, my clothing flattening against my bones and dragging heavily on me. Hail clatters around my feet in ankle-high piles, rolling over my feet with biting, icy touches, and bounces off my skull and my shoulders and my back. I cover my head with my arms, but the hail stings and bruises all the same. Twenty feet has never seemed so far.

I can’t help the sob that escapes as I reach the cabin—relief and pain and exhaustion mixed together in a confusing jumble of emotion. The handle of the door is a crude metal latch—I fumble with it until it opens, and then I tumble into the cabin. The wind batters at the door, flinging it open and ripping it out of my hands, spraying rain and clattering hail inside. Will is there, putting his shoulder to the door, and throwing a thick wooden bar down into a hook, so the door cannot be opened from the outside.

I’m standing a few feet from the door, sobbing, dripping wet, aching, wishing I’d never come here to this stupid ranch, wishing desperately that I’d chosen the tropical all-inclusive idea instead of this idiotic, ill-advised historic ranch town thing. Which is sure to fail, even if there was some way to convince this arrogant mustang of a man to listen to me for five damned minutes.

I can barely see past the sudden flood of tears, and my gut burns hot with hatred for this weakness—I despise crying, and pride myself on not indulging in tears no matter the heartbreak or pain. The last time I wept like this was when my grandma Tilley passed away when I was sixteen. Since then, no matter the breakup, no matter the betrayal, no matter the failure or letdown or disappointment or setback, I do not cry.

I do not cry.

Yet here I am, in front of a man who clearly couldn’t care less about me, sobbing like a little girl. And I’m unable to stop myself. It’s all just been too much. I fought my fear of the unfamiliar, trusted a stranger’s word and intent, and got on a horse—only to have it run away with me on its back. If I had fallen off, I’d have broken bones at best. Then, I was rescued—and humiliated, and dismissed—by the very man I was trying to find. And then I found myself onanotherhorse, riding farther yet into the unknown. Charged by a stallion. Thrown from my horse. Nearly stomped on by the stallion. Rescued yet again. Then, as if all of that wasn’t enough, I was hauled bodily onto a horse by my reluctant rescuer and rescued a third time, taken on another wild pell-mell gallop through a torrential storm…

Dismissed yet again.

And now, to add insult to injury, I’m at that same stubborn, arrogant, dismissive man’s mercy, in his home, forced to accept his reluctant hospitality…

And I’m sobbing.