“I mentioned the possibility.”
“What exactly did you tell her?”
“That my cousin is stubborn, broke, owns too much land, and might lose it.”
“You sold me beautifully.”
“She asked if you hit women.”
Wade’s expression changed.
“And?”
“I told her you barely speak to them.”
Wade closed his eyes.
“Travis.”
“She laughed.”
“That help?”
“No.”
“Then she asked if you drink.”
“Not much.”
“I told her.”
“Gamble?”
“No.”
“Children?”
“No.”
“Criminal history?”
“No.”
“Do you expect sex?”
Wade nearly choked on coffee.
“You discussed my sex life?”
“I said no.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know you.”
Wade leaned forward.
“You tell her one thing clearly.”
“What?”
“If she comes here, she owes me nothing except whatever contract we both sign.”
“No bed.”
“No affection.”
“No pretending.”
“If she wants out, she says so.”
Travis nodded.
“I already did.”
Wade looked toward diner window.
Snow still clung to shaded edges of the street.
“This is insane.”
“Yes.”
“And if she says yes?”
Travis smiled faintly.
“Then maybe insane keeps your ranch.”
Marisol Vega stepped off the bus in Cheyenne seven days later carrying one suitcase and a locked brown leather satchel.
Wade had imagined someone desperate.
That made him feel ashamed the moment he saw her.
Marisol did not look desperate.
She looked controlled.
Twenty-nine.
Dark auburn-brown hair braided around the back of her head.
Olive skin.
Brown eyes so alert they seemed to inventory the parking lot before they settled on Wade.
She wore a tan wool coat, practical boots, and no expression suggesting she was relieved to see him.
Good.
Wade preferred suspicion to gratitude.
“You Wade Mercer?”
“Yes.”
“You’re late.”
He checked the clock.
“Three minutes.”
“I noticed.”
He almost smiled.
“Truck’s this way.”
She picked up her suitcase.
Wade reached for it.
Marisol tightened her hand.
“I can carry it.”
“Okay.”
No argument.
That seemed to surprise her.
They walked.
The brown satchel stayed against her opposite side.
Wade noticed the small brass lock.
He did not ask.
They met Whitlock at the county courthouse the following morning.
Marisol read every line of the agreement.
Then again.
Wade sat across from her.
Whitlock waited.
Marisol tapped the third page.
“My wages begin immediately?”
“Yes,” Wade said.
“Even if ranch loses money?”
“Yes.”
“Where does wage come from if you’re broke?”
Wade looked at Whitlock.
Whitlock looked at Wade.
Marisol raised one eyebrow.
Wade said, “I sell two yearlings if I have to.”
“No.”
He frowned.
“No?”
“I’m not taking working capital while the ranch is failing.”
She drew a line through the wage.
Whitlock leaned forward.
“Ms. Vega—”
“Profit share stays.”
“Room and board stays.”
“If we produce nothing, I take nothing.”
Wade studied her.
“You’re allowed to be paid.”
“I know.”