With an oat bar wedged between my teeth, I leave the house and lock it behind me. I slide my suitcase into the back of my car, toss my purse onto the passenger seat, and call my dad’s favorite deli to place an order for take-out. When I waltz back into conference room B at five minutes to one, my dad is sitting in the same spot. It’s quite possible he hasn’t gotten up other than to refill his coffee.
“Lunch,” I announce, setting his paper-wrapped sandwich in front of him.
“Good call on the boots,” Dad comments, pointing at my feet and then unwrapping his Italian sandwich with extra meat. “Beau needs to see we’re not city folk.”
“Folk?”
He shrugs, taking a bite. “Trying it out.”
I shake my head, my expression deadpan, and he laughs.
“Did you see Emerson or Taylor?” he asks hopefully. He’s a huge softie when it comes to his grandbabies.
“Abby took them to the Children’s Museum.”
“Do you think I’m still the favorite?”
I take a bite and brush a piece of shredded lettuce from my lip. “I’m sure you are, Dad.” Emerson, the younger of the two, has a different ‘favorite person’ every week. Whoever it is, she lavishes with attention.
While we eat, he shows me aerial images of Hayden Ranch. Its sheer size is almost incomprehensible. “Biggest ranch in the state,” he tells me.
I want to ask him why he’s chosen me to lead the charge on this one, but I’m not sure I want to know the answer. Maybe he pities the mess I got myself into with Barrett. Or maybe he really believes in me. Either way, I don’t want to hear it.
“Let’s head to the airport,” he says when we’ve finished. He gathers the paper trash from our lunch and stuffs it into the bag. On our way out of the conference room, I glance back at him.
“Hey, Dad? You have lipstick on your teeth.”
His hand goes to his mouth before it falters and he laughs. “Damn you, Sheila.”
4
Dakota
“Hon?”my dad calls through my hotel room door. “You ready for dinner?”
I look down at myself and consider a change of clothes, but when I remember the name of the restaurant in the lobby of our hotel, I think better of it. My jeans and boots will be just fine at a place called The Corral.
After the relatively short flight to Phoenix, we had an almost two-hour drive to Sierra Grande. We didn’t stop to eat, because my dad just wanted to get here. In short, I’m starving.
I answer the door and we walk down the stairs to the lobby. The Sierra is a nice hotel, cute and very western, with mahogany wood-planked walls and large framed pictures of famous cowboys and cowgirls.
“Two for dinner, please,” my dad says to the young hostess when we enter the restaurant. She shows us to our table and leaves two leather-backed menus plus a drink menu on the table. I take a seat and look around. The restaurant has continued the western theme. The chandeliers are made of wagon wheels, and the tables are covered in red and white tablecloths. A galvanized steel tray in the center of the tables holds ketchup, mustard, and hot sauce calledKick Yo’ Asswith a donkey on the label.
Our server approaches, a smiling girl who’s probably only a few years older than the hostess. Her pink-tipped long blonde hair is gathered into a ponytail that hangs over her shoulder. She wears large turquoise earrings and the friendliest grin I’ve ever seen, and in each hand is a large glass of water with a lemon wheel perched on the rim.
“Hiya,” she warbles, the word soft and pretty like a dove’s coo. She sets down the drinks.
“Hi… Josephine.” I read the little rectangle pinned to her maroon polo and return her grin.
“Welcome to The Corral. Have you two been here before?” Her head tips to the side and she taps a teal blue fingernail against the edge of the table.
We shake our heads. She bounces her shoulders in a half-shimmy, and says, “I had a feeling you weren’t from here.”
“Colorado Springs,” I answer.
“I’ve been there, it’s beautiful. What are you doing in Sierra Grande?” She looks between me and my dad, then her eyes widen, and she adds, “If you don’t mind me asking.”
“No, no, it’s fine,” my dad assures her. “We have a meeting with a rancher.”
