Page 31 of Impossible Love

I pull the Jeep to a stop. Before I can ask if she wants to walk around for a bit, she’s already out the door and on the ground. I catch up with her.

Victoria slips her sunglasses off and hooks them into the neck of her sweater. She stands with her fists on her slim hips and widens her stance. “Where’s the stinky sulfur pits and chalky rocks and shit?”

I laugh, coming to stand beside her. I’m hit again by the soft, feminine scent that comes off her skin and hair. “Dad says there used to be sulfur here, back when the ranch was founded, but that’s a long time ago. All we have now are mineral hot springs, heated by totally unstinky geothermal vents—kind of like nature’s private hot tubs.”

She glances up at me, then quickly looks away again. Maybe that wasn’t the best topic to bring up.

“Well, it’s magnificent. I want to walk down to get a closer look.”

“Of course.”

On our way, I decide Victoria isn’t wrong. This place is magnificent. Of all the beautiful spots on the ranch, it’s always been my favorite, as dramatic as a postcard.

To the far west are the Sierra Nevadas, rising like rocky castles toward the sky. Below are the gentle foothills, deep green with grasses and pine. To the east are high desert mesas and rocky landscapes.

And right here, in the middle of it all, are the springs. Back during the Depression, my great-grandfather, Angus MacLaine, put some of the local men to work building stone enclosures around the pools. It kept a few families from going hungry and created a ledge you could sit on while soaking your feet. Or lean on while losing your virginity. There’s a large chair-shaped rock formation in the center of the pool that we’ve always called the Throne, because sitting in it makes you feel like you’re king of the world.

As I watch Victoria walking through my favorite spot, I think about how her beauty is just as stunning as our surroundings. Yet again, I have to remind myself that this is not a get-to-know-you kind of day. It’s just an out-and-back trip. Because my father asked.

But still, I wonder how something so lovely could be rotten at her center, a dishonest schemer. She wouldn’t be the first woman to be that brand of walking contradiction. She won’t be the last.

We walk for about a half hour. She dips her hand into one of the pools, and my mind goes to impossible places, like this morning’s dream, Victoria’s flesh firm and hot under my hands, the water massaging us.

She brushes wildflower blooms with her fingertips, and I notice once more how long and elegant her fingers are. Her short, natural nails are the result of an expensive manicure, no doubt, but those hands don’t need a lot of bling. She’s wearing what looks like a white-gold ring on the middle finger of her right hand. It’s elegant and expensive.

Her signature.

She asks me a whole series of questions about the history of the ranch and the challenges that come with a family-run ranching business. I answer her but don’t provide much in the way of detail. If she’s here to buy Sulfur Springs—and hoping to do business with the MacLaines—then she should already have the answers to these questions.

I wonder if she’s playing some kind of game with me, but I doubt it. I see that little divot forming between her brows. She seems truly appreciative of the beauty here, but something is troubling her.

We continue walking in silence. It isn’t awkward—it’s been strangely comfortable. And that’s another thing. Victoria seems at home out here. She isn’t out of breath or tripping over rocks or afraid to leap when it’s called for.

Not what I expected.

I check my watch and suggest we head back up the hill toward the Jeep. It’s midafternoon, and navigating off road in the dark is doable for me, but not ideal when I’ve got a guest along.

“Want some water?”

I hand my steel bottle to her, and she takes a big gulp, then screws the lid back on and hands it back to me.

As we make the trek uphill, it becomes noticeably warmer. I take off my brush jacket and tie it around my waist.

“Can I ask you something, Victoria?”

She cocks her head to look up at me. She’s not eager for conversation but shrugs in agreement.

“Who told you the MacLaines were pushovers?”

She bites her bottom lip again, and fuck, that drives me crazy. I’m a man. As impossible as the situation is, I’m about ten seconds away from grabbing her by the shoulders, turning her into me, and covering that sexy mouth with my own until she begs me for more.

“It doesn’t matter,” she says.

“All right.”

We continue our climb. I can’t let this drop.

“Now that you’ve seen Sulfur Springs for yourself, have your plans changed? I mean, you obviously thought you’d be seeing some useless piece of dried-up desert.”

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