He did know, actually. And he needed to do better than to spout off like that just because Fleur had always gotten under his skin.
“I apologize. Fleur and I have a history and I shouldn’t have spoken to her that way.” He didn’t want to rile his best waitress and manager. So he changed topics. “Did she say what she was here for, by the way?”
He guessed she’d come to town to settle her grandmother’s estate. Hopefully, it would be the speediest process in the history of Catamount.
“She was looking for a job. But since she crumpled the application into pulp when she saw you, I doubt she’ll be applying.” Marta turned on a heel and stalked off to refill the cups of the only other diners in the establishment.
Fleur wanted a job?
Just how long was she planning on staying in Catamount?
He shouldn’t have given in to the reflex to taunt her. Drake had been waiting for Crooked Elm to go up for sale for years. And now that it finally seemed like a viable possibility, his first move was to resort to sparring with Fleur a reflex from the old days when he’d worked hard to keep her at arm’s length.
Why hadn’t he offered her condolences about losing her grandmother? He’d always liked Antonia Barclay, even if she’d refused to sell him a key piece of her ranch property for years. She’d warned him that one day he would have to bargain with her granddaughters for the right to buy the land.
Now that day had come and he’d already started on the wrong foot. He’d just been caught off guard when he’d walked into the diner and saw a woman so gorgeous she’d sent a thrill through him. When she’d spun around enough that he’d recognized her...
All the old tangle of bitterness and hunger had him shoving his boot in his mouth.
He took a sip of the coffee and promptly scalded his tongue. Drake swore softly and glanced out the front windows again.
The rust-bucket car was still parked there—right beside his pickup truck. Through the windshield, he could see Fleur in the driver’s seat, head bent over her phone.
Before he could think the better of it, he shot to his feet and pushed his way out of the exit. He clapped his Stetson on his head midstride, then squared his shoulders to face her.
He wanted to offer to buy Crooked Elm then and there. She’d been very willing to accept a payout from an Alexander man five years ago during the engagement to Colin. He’d overheard them discussing a prenup—with substantial provisions for Fleur—before the engagement was a week old. It had rubbed him raw to have his brother tied down when Fleur hadn’t even had the chance to attend culinary school yet, prompting his visit to Fleur to tell her exactly what he thought of it. And while their argument that night had been effective in encouraging her to break things off with his brother, it had also left a deep scar on his family.
He could acknowledge now that he’d mishandled things. He was wiser now. So maybe he could convince her to sell the ranch without ever having to list the property with a Realtor.
But the fact that she drove the beat-up car gave him pause. He’d written her off as a gold digger once upon a time. Yet that label didn’t fit with the car she was driving. Or the fact that she’d been looking for a job at the Cowboy Kitchen of all places. It wasn’t much as far as eateries went, but it was the only food establishment in all of Catamount, and Drake had been unwilling to let the place go under when the former owner couldn’t make the mortgage payments anymore. He would never leave this town, which meant it made sense to invest in the place.
As his shadow fell across the windshield, Fleur looked up. She startled, dropping her phone before her gray eyes narrowed at him.
Still, she rolled down her window, the hand crank making it unnecessary to even turn on the engine.
“Did you think of a few more jabs?” she asked, blinking up at him in the sunlight.
He wouldn’t rise to the bait. If there was any chance Fleur would sell to him, he couldn’t fall into old habits.
“I’m sorry about your grandmother. Everyone liked Antonia.”
Fleur’s face fell. Whether from sadness at her loss or disappointment that he hadn’t stuck to their usual script, he couldn’t say.
“Thank you.” The words were stiff. Forced. “I’ll organize a memorial once I’m sure my sisters can be here.”
He hadn’t seen all three Barclay sisters in Catamount at the same time since he’d been a teen. He’d never forget the day, either. There’d been a junior rodeo at the county fair shortly after the elder Barclays’ breakup. Fleur’s mother arrived with her oldest daughter, while Fleur’s father had been in attendance with his mistress. Jessamyn, the middle daughter, had been in a barrel racing competition. Drake had been in the stands watching since the bull riding event started later in the day.
Security had to get involved after the mistress—the wife of a prominent divorce attorney, of all things—used her designer purse like a medieval mace, knocking Mrs. Barclay down a few stairs. Fleur had been in the early days of her rodeo career, so she’d been maybe nine years old at the time. She’d been dressed in red, white and blue satin, seated on horseback in the arena with a few other flag bearers, preparing for the opening laps. But she’d surprised the crowd by breaking into a spontaneous solo rendition of “America the Beautiful” after the fight broke out. The decision had seemed an odd choice to a lot of folks, since her mother could have very well been injured at the time, although Drake had suspected she’d been trying to deflect attention from the scene.
Later, he’d second-guessed the opinion, especially as he’d watched her grow into a dedicated pageant contestant, travelling all over the west for a shot at a title.
But for the rest of Catamount, Fleur’s reputation for being self-centered had only grown from that day at the junior rodeo. He wasn’t going to think about that now when he needed to convince her to sell him Crooked Elm. The ranch’s rangelands had been overused by their current tenant and needed serious intervention to restore the soil quality. Conserving the land—using it in a way that gave back instead of stripping it—had been a goal of his parents. For that reason, it was an even more important goal for him.
“I’m sure you’ll have a big turnout for her,” he told Fleur belatedly, still deciding the best way to proceed. Should he make the offer now? Or backtrack and try to smooth over her impression of him to boost the chances she’d agree to it? Swallowing his pride in one hard lump, he tried to adopt a reasonably pleasant tone. “Marta mentioned you were in the market for a job?”
She laughed. A brisk, mirthlessha!“Only until I found out who owns the place.”
He leaned against his pickup truck parked beside her car, then crossed one boot over the other as he picked his words carefully. Marta’s admonishment about his judgmental words had reminded him he had no business needling Fleur anymore. She wasn’t a kid any longer, and he couldn’t still claim to be reeling from his parents’ death. Time to rein in the sniping.