Page 14 of Impossible Love

I live on the top floor of a brand-new building, and everything in my home, from the appliances to the linens, is as modern as modern can get. Sleek and clean.

From what I can see of the living room, there isn’t anything in here that was made after the Reagan years. I wouldn’t be surprised if their kitchen features a wood stove from the pioneer days.

An elderly man is seated in an armchair near the front windows. He pushes himself to a stand. “Who do we have here, Jamie?”

Mr. MacLaine gestures to the man, who smiles and walks toward me. “Victoria Backlund, this is Arlo Westervelt, my dear friend and the ranch’s accountant. Arlo, Miss Backlund is here to talk about buying Sulfur Springs.”

“Say what?” Arlo rears back in shock. He looks to Cal for clarification.

“We’re not selling,” Cal barks.

“She’s with Renaissance Employed, a company out of San Diego,” Mr. MacLaine says.

“It’s Renaissance Empowered.” I shake this Arlo person’s hand.

“Never heard of ’em.” The old man shrugs and returns to his chair. “Don’t mind me. I’ll just be a fly on the wall while you talk about Sulfur Springs.”

“We’re not selling,” Cal snaps, yet again.

Mr. MacLaine invites me to sit on a leather couch. He sits in a chair across from me. Just as we take our seats, a woman about Mr. MacLaine’s age walks into the room and beams at me with a brilliant smile. “Do we have company?” she asks, delighted. “I’ll bring refreshments.”

I know that she’s not Mr. MacLaine’s wife, because he’s a long-time widower. But I don’t know who she is. As if reading my mind, Mr. MacLaine says, “This is my sister-in-law, Phyllis. She’s the brains of this house. She’s the boss, too.”

Phyllis swats the air. “Jamie, you’re full of crap. You only say those things when you want me to make prime rib for supper, and I’ll do no such thing. Not after your latest cholesterol test.”

“Dammit, woman.” Mr. MacLaine chuckles. “Nobody ever died from a little prime rib.”

Phyllis winks at me. “A little prime rib? That man can eat an entire side of beef before the rest of us pick up our forks. Be right back.”

As soon as Phyllis leaves for the kitchen, Cal starts up on me again, ranting about how ridiculous it is for his father to even discuss the matter. He’s standing, staring down at me like I’m a snake that’s slithered through a crack in the wall and he’s about ready to grab his ax.

I understand why this angers Callum MacLaine. He doesn’t want his father to sell off a portion of their holdings. He grew up here, and he’s attached to the piece of land we want, even if it’s a desolate, unused part miles away from the heart of the ranch.

I see this kind of reaction a lot. People don’t like change. People don’t like transitions. Even if change is good for them. Even if it means they’ll have enough money to enjoy life to the fullest.

Cal will figure out soon enough that I’m not the enemy. He’ll see that I’m good for him. That this deal will make his family rich.

Mr. MacLaine looks from Cal to me and back again. He smiles a little, but he covers it up quickly with his hand and clears his throat. He looks at us again. Something amuses him. I don’t get it. I don’t see anything remotely entertaining about this situation.

“Well now, Cal. I think we should hear her out.”

“But—”

“Maybe we’d be interested in what she offers. Maybe Sulfur Springs should go to somebody who would love it more than we do.”

“What the absolute honest fuck are we talking about here, Dad?” The tendons in Cal’s neck look like they’re about to snap. I worry he’s about to have a seizure.

True, negotiations would be easier with Cal out of the picture, but I don’t wish harm on anyone. Even this asshole.

“We’re not going to hear her out, Dad. Sulfur Springs isn’t for sale.” He glares at me, his lip curled in disgust. “There isn’t a pebble or pine needle or cow paddy on this ranch that we’re selling to this scavenger, no matter what she says.”

Of course, I’m the target of his rage. But I know not to let it get to me. His father is calling the shots here, not Cal, so his little temper tantrum doesn’t intimidate me in the least. I lean back on the sofa and cross my legs to show that I don’t notice his anger. There will be no sweating in front of this shark.

Then I see Cal staring at my leg. Oh, shit. I yank down my skirt, realizing that I’d just exposed a stretch of my thigh. That wasn’t part of my cool-customer routine. And now I feel my face get hot.

Hello again, discombobulation.

Just then, Mr. MacLaine says he’s ready to hear what I have to say and gives me the floor.

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