Page 8 of Then You Happened
I’m ten feet from my truck when her voice rings out.
“Jack.”
It’s the way she says my name like a woman wanting to hold it all together while fearing she isn’t going to be able to. That single syllable is full of defiance and fear and confusion and determination.
There’s something about her I can’t peg.
Something that’s pulling me in that’s just as strong as the promise I made and my need to keep my word.
Something that I hate myself for wanting to explore.
I turn to where she stands on the top of the steps, staring at me across the distance with one hand on her hip and the other shielding her eyes. Her expression is stoic, no reflection of the tinge of desperation that just rang out in her voice.
And yet, my name felt like an olive branch extended in a war zone. One that’s only going to be offered for mere seconds before it’s snatched back.
Walk away, Jack.
Walk the fuck away while you can.
Instead, I take a step closer, twist my lips, and look around, wondering why I’m not taking the out when I can.
Because I made promises, that’s why. Duty and defiance war against each other within me.
I take another step toward her.
“You can’t expect anyone to successfully sell your brand and this place when it looks like it’s been neglected.” She starts to speak, and I just keep on talking. “How many people do you have on your staff?”
“One.”
“One?” I laugh. “Funny. You have forty horses here. How many people besides the one ranch manager do you have on staff?”
“If you don’t count good ol’ eighty-one-year-old Sylvester who stops by and helps now and again, it’s just one.”
“Sylvester?” I ask. “Should I assume he’s how you know I’ve been in town for a few days?” She nods and twists her lips as I try to fathom how she only has one employee. How she manages all of this that way. Then again, she isn’t exactly a ray of fucking sunshine either. I can only imagine how pleasant she is to work with and for. “Well, fire the one. He’s not doing his job. Tell him he’s been replaced.”
“Replaced?” Her chuckle is low and condescending. “By whom?”
By whom? Definitely the upper crust of New England.
“By me.”
Her laugh rings louder now, it’s long and rich, and it is followed by a shake of her head. “I’ve already fired everyone who can be fired. Thanks for letting me know how to run my ranch, though.”
“Your ranch. Your problem,” I say, noting how moments before it was her husband’s ranch but, now that she’s defending it, it’s hers. “You said you needed to sell more horses this year. Rebuild and revamp by breeding and selling. Pick up some key clients who might create repeat business. Maybe even sell a rodeo circuit champion or two,” I say. “Increase profits in general, right?”
Tatum just stares at me as indecision fights over her features. The need for help against the want to stand her ground.
“I don’t think I heard you wrong, did I?” I continue. “Feel free to go at it alone, but from what you told me, you need the help to turn a profit and stay afloat. I can help with that. Or you can tell me to walk away, taking all my experience and connections with me, and you can keep doing what you’re doing.”
Stubborn pride or guaranteed success.
Your call, princess.
Her body tenses, and her teeth grit. “There are other people I can hire. No worries there.”
“The question is, will they work for you?” I snort. “Next time someone comes out, you might want to mention to them they’re going to be fighting an uphill battle trying to promote a ranch this size without any help.”
“Running the ranch is my responsibility. Selling the foals was supposed to be yours.”
