Page 66 of The Cowboy’s Reckoning

“The mortgage application?”

“That’s part of it.” Her expression shifted and he reached for her hand. “I’m also sifting through records to see what I can find about R. F. Weston. It’s all good.”

She looked like she was about to call him on the all-good part but instead squeezed his fingers. “I have to get this stuff in the washer.”

*

“You look great.” Gone was the dirt-covered woman who’d wrestled the lame calf to the ground and in her place stood a striking beauty in a flowy summer dress with dark hair hanging loose down her back.

He found both renditions of Lil sexy, although the dirt-covered one might be his favorite. He liked the idea of helping her out of her clothes before they washed up, something he hadn’t had a chance to do that day.

“Thank you. Are you sure that you don’t want to come out with us?”

Much as he’d have liked to spend the evening with Lil, Jordan had other matters to attend to. “I’m sure. Have fun.”

“We will. I told Aubrey all about the Wolf Den—”

He must have telegraphed his knee-jerk reaction to that bit of news because she laughed.

“We’re going to the Graff.”

“Watch out for cattle.”

She smiled and he thought for a moment that she was going to kiss him, but instead she turned and headed toward her truck where Meg was waiting, her skirt swirling around her legs as she walked. He almost called out, Be careful, but there was no reason to. The only danger he could think of was other guys hitting on her and Lil could handle herself.

He closed the trailer door and settled back on the sofa, pulling his computer onto his lap. R. F. Weston had proven to be as elusive as Carl Jordan when it came to general internet searches, so Jordan had turned to public records. Deeds and conservancies and grazing district agreements. He was deep into the search, sifting through records, skimming most, reading others more carefully, when a call came in from a Montana area code. He now answered all numbers, whether they were familiar or not.

“I’m calling for Jordan Matthews?” a woman asked.

He knew immediately that this was the call he’d been waiting for. “It is.”

“My name is Libby Weston of R. F. Weston. I understand that you would like to discuss a matter?”

“Yes, I would.”

“And that would be …”

Jordan thought that more than obvious, but he played along. “The Willow Creek Ranch. Your family once owned it.”

“I know,” she said dryly.

“You appear to want to own it again.”

Silence. For a moment he thought she might hang up.

“When do you want to meet?” she finally said, and he let out the breath he’d been holding as he waited for a reply.

“As soon as you’re available.”

“May I text this number?”

“You may.”

Less than twenty minutes later a text came in asking if he could meet at nine o’clock the next day, Sunday, at Connery Land Brokerage in Livingston.

As soon as his YES zipped into cyberspace, he opened his computer and continued searching records. She couldn’t want the place for sentimental reasons. Sentimentality wasn’t worth vandalism and animal cruelty. It had to be something else.

Jordan had checked the mineral rights and found that they had not been sold with the property. Ironically, those were retained by R. F. Weston. She could mine anytime with reasonable accommodations for him.