Cowboy Strong. Stacy Finz

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СКАЧАТЬ make sure these shops have an agritourism vibe and not an outlet center feel.”

      “You think Cash and I would do that? Give me a break, Sawyer. We’re looking at Harris Ranch as a model.”

      Besides producing something like 150 million pounds of beef a year, the Harris family had turned their San Joaquin Valley cattle ranch and feedlot into an attraction for motorists traveling between Southern and Northern California. They offered luxury lodging, dining, and a gift shop. The whole setup had become a California institution, as well as a license to mint money.

      “A bit of a tall order, don’t you think?” Sawyer stretched out, hanging his boots off the edge of the couch. “What makes Harris Ranch work is that it’s halfway between San Francisco and Los Angeles and there’s nothing else for miles. Dry Creek isn’t on the way to anywhere.”

      Jace wadded up a piece of paper and threw it at Sawyer. “Whatever happened to your standard ‘Go big, or go home’? We’re on the route to Reno. Best ski resorts in California are only an hour away. But you don’t have to be so literal about it. I’m using Harris Ranch in theory. We’re not talking about building a one-hundred-fifty-room inn or a steak house. Just businesses that subscribe to the ranching way of life that’ll attract tourists and locals.”

      “Like what?”

      “Hell, I don’t know. That’s what we’re trying to figure out.”

      “Maybe we could become a halfway house for disgraced celebrity chefs.”

      Jace’s lips twitched at Sawyer’s sneer. “She really got under your skin, didn’t she?”

      “She’s a piece of work. Threw a bag at me because she didn’t like her accommodations. The woman’s lucky I didn’t throw her out in the street and drop a dime to a food blogger friend of mine at Eater.”

      “I don’t think your folks would be too thrilled with that. But we have some horse stalls that need mucking if you want her to earn her keep.”

      The idea appealed to Sawyer. Nothing like shoveling horse shit to bring a person down to earth. “Hopefully, she won’t be here long. My gut tells me after a few days in the heat without air-conditioning, she’ll pack up and book herself into a Ritz-Carlton somewhere.”

      Sawyer’s stomach growled. Besides some nuts and pretzels on the plane, he hadn’t had a real meal since leaving the UK. “You got anything to eat?”

      “I think there’s some leftover meat loaf in the fridge. Help yourself.”

      Sawyer got to his feet and wandered into the kitchen. It was the best room in the house, which was saying a lot, because the log rancher was a showstopper. His grandfather had spared no expense on the house, with its thirty-five-foot high ceilings, enormous stone fireplaces, rough-hewn log walls, and enough windows to take in views of the foothills on four sides.

      Jace had grown up in the ranch house and had been raised by their grandparents after his mother, father, and baby brother had been killed by a drunken driver on Highway 49.

      Although Sawyer had grown up in Los Angeles, he’d spent much of his youth sitting at the massive center island in this room, sneaking his grandmother’s home-baked cookies from the pantry before dinner, and eating countless pancake breakfasts with his cousins. As kids, he and his sister, Angela, spent every holiday and summer at the ranch.

      Dry Creek had always felt more like home than his parents’ sprawling Beverly Hills compound.

      He found the meat loaf and a bowl of leftover mashed potatoes, fixed a plate, and heated it in the microwave. While waiting, he nursed a bottle of beer. It looked like his afternoon nap was on hold. Probably better to stay awake until his regular bedtime to fight his jet lag anyway.

      “You get a lot out of the conference?” Jace joined him at the island.

      Sawyer shrugged. “It was mostly a bunch of journalists drinking and networking. At least while I was there, I did a few interviews for a piece I’m working on for Forbes about globalization.” He was happy to be back in the swing of things. For the last year, he’d been chained to a desk, writing a book about the war in Afghanistan.

      The microwave dinged and Sawyer took his food to the breakfast table. “You on call today?”

      “I’m always on call; the joy of being sheriff. So far, though, it’s been a slow Saturday.”

      “Nice,” Sawyer said around a mouthful. “What’s Cash up to?”

      “Dunno. Probably with Ellie. She might’ve had a horse show today. Have you seen her jump? The kid’s good. We might have an Olympian on our hands.”

      “Sounds like she takes after Angie, huh?” Unlike the rest of them—and much to their grandfather’s horror—Sawyer’s sister had preferred English riding to Western. Grandpa Dalton had given her no end of grief about her preference.

      Sawyer would do anything to be able to tease her about it again.

      He ate the last of his meat loaf and potatoes and polished off the rest of his beer. A second wave of exhaustion hit him and he considered taking a dip in the creek to wake himself up.

      “Thanks for the meat loaf.” He cleared his plate. “We grilling tomorrow?” It was a Sunday tradition Jace had started last summer. They gathered in his backyard around the outdoor kitchen for suppertime and ended the evening with the kids roasting marshmallows over the firepit.

      “Yep,” Jace said. “Bring beer. None of that weird shit.”

      Sawyer rolled his eyes. Jace’s taste was as pedestrian as anyone’s. Cash’s wasn’t much better. “Sure, something from 7-Eleven, preferably in a can. While I’m at it, I’ll get some boxed wine.” He headed out, calling behind him, “See you tomorrow.”

      When he got home there were four missed calls on his phone. All from his mother.

      Chapter 2

      Gina walked around the cabin, trying to decide whether to find the nearest hotel or haul ass back to Los Angeles. Ultimately, the prospect of the paparazzi chasing her down Interstate 5 convinced her to stay put.

      But this place.

      She held her nose and spent the next ten minutes wheeling her suitcases into what served as the master bedroom. With an old dish towel from the kitchen, she dusted down the closet and bureau before unpacking. Terry cloth wasn’t enough to clean the bathroom. A gallon of gasoline and a match might be the only way to save it.

      Nevertheless, she found a can of scouring powder and some steel wool under the kitchen sink and went to work on the tub, then the toilet and sink. It didn’t sparkle when she finished, but at least she was no longer afraid of contracting a disease.

      The white tile floor was next on her agenda and she went in search of a mop. At home, in Malibu, she had people to scrub her floors and do just about anything else she didn’t have time for, including cooking.

      Which was ironic.

      But she was too busy running a multimillion-dollar company and taping thirteen episodes a season of her show, Now That’s СКАЧАТЬ