“But I believed you when you said you wouldn’t,” she countered.
“You want points for that?”
“Or a merit badge.” The joke was out before she could stop it.
Caleb gave a half smile. Then he seemed to contemplate her for a long, drawn out moment. “I should just sell the damn thing.”
“Well, that would be quite the windfall, wouldn’t it?”
“You think I’d keep the money?”
She stilled, taking in his affronted expression. Oops. She swallowed. “Well…”
Caleb shook his head in obvious disgust, his tone flat. “I’d give the money to Reed, Mandy.”
“Reed wants the ranch, not the money,” she pointed out, attempting to cover the blunder.
“Then why isn’t he here fighting for it?”
“Excellent question,” Travis jumped in. “If it was me, I’d fight you tooth and nail. Hell, I’d lie, cheat and steal to get my land back.”
“So, where is he?” Caleb’s question was directed at Mandy.
“I’m going to find out,” she vowed.
Two days later, Mandy was no closer to an answer. Caleb, on the other hand, was moving his alternative plan along at lighting speed, having decided it was most efficient for him to stay on the ranch for now. He had a real- estate broker on retainer, an appraiser marching around the Terrell ranch and a photographer compiling digital shots for the broker’s website. He’d told her that if they didn’t find Reed in the next few days, the ranch was going on the market.
Trying to keep her activities logical and rational, despite the ticking clock, Mandy had gone from checking Reed’s web-browser history for hotel sites, to trying his cell phone one more time, to calling the hospitals within a three-hundred-mile radius, just in case.
At noon, tired, frustrated and hungry, she wandered into the Terrell kitchen. She found a chicken breast in the freezer, cheese in the refrigerator along with half a jar of salsa, and some tomatoes, peppers and onions in the crisper.
Assuming Caleb and the appraiser would be hungry when they finished their work, she put the chicken breast in the microwave and set it to defrost. She found a thick skillet, flour, shortening and a rolling pin, and started mixing up a batch of homemade tortilla shells.
When Caleb walked in half an hour later, she was chopping her way through a ripe tomato on the island’s counter, the chicken frying on the stove.
She glanced up to see Caleb alone. “Where’s the appraiser?” she asked.
“On his way back to Lyndon.”
“He wasn’t hungry?”
Caleb snagged a chunk of tomato and popped it into his mouth. “He didn’t know there was anything on offer.”
“You didn’t offer to feed him?” It was more than two-and-a-half hours back to Lyndon.
“I didn’t think it was worth the risk.”
She gave him a perplexed look.
“I don’t cook,” he clarified.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” She turned her back on him to flip the last of the tortillas frying in the pan. “Everybody cooks.”
“Not me.”
She threw the vegetables in with the chicken. “How is that possible? You said you lived alone. Please, don’t tell me you have servants.”
“I don’t have servants. Does anybody have servants in this day and age? I live in a high-rise apartment in downtown Chicago. I’m surrounded by excellent restaurants.”
“You eat out every night?” She couldn’t imagine it.
“I do a lot of business over dinner,” he told her easily. “But most of the restaurants in the area also offer takeout.”
“It’s hard to believe you survive on takeout.” She turned back, returning to chopping the tomato on the island. How could he be so fit eating pizza, burgers and chicken?
“There’s takeout. And then there’s takeout.” He spread his arms and rested the heels of his hands against the lip of the granite countertop, cornerwise from where she worked. “Andre’s, around the corner from my apartment, will send up filet mignon, baby potatoes in a sweet dill sauce and primavera lettuce salad with papaya dressing.”
Suddenly, her soft-taco recipe seemed lame. She paused. “You must make a lot of money to afford meals like that.”
He was silent for a long moment, and she quickly realized her observation had been rude. It was none of her business how much money he made.
“I do okay,” he finally allowed.
“Tell me something about your job.” She tried to graciously shift the subject.
She also realized she was curious. What had happened to the seventeen-year-old cowboy who landed in Chicago with nothing more than a high school education. It couldn’t have been easy for him.
“The company’s called Active Equipment.” He reached out and snagged another chunk of tomato.
She threatened him with her chopping knife.
But he only laughed. “We sell heavy equipment to construction companies, exploration and resource companies, even ranchers.”
“So, like a car dealership?”
“Not a dealership. It’s a multinational corporation. We manufacture the equipment before we sell it.” With lightning speed, he chose another piece of tomato from the juicy pile and popped it into his mouth, sucking the liquid from the tip of his finger.
“There’s not going to be any left for the tacos,” she warned.
“I’ll risk it.”
“So, what do you do at this corporation?”
Caleb swallowed. “I run it.”
“What part of it?”
“All of it.”
Her hand stilled. “You run an entire corporation?” He’d risen all the way to the top at age twenty-seven? That seemed impossible.
“Yes.”
“I don’t understand.”
He coughed out a laugh. “I’m the president and chief executive officer.”
“They gave you
“Not exactly. They let me run things, because they have no choice. I own it.”
She set down the knife. She couldn’t believe it. “You
He nodded.
“How?”
He shrugged. “Hard work, intelligence and a few big financial risks along the way.”
“But-”
“You should stop being so surprised that I’m not a loser.”
He paused, but she didn’t know how to respond to that.
“Though it’s true that I can’t cook,” he allowed with a crooked smile. “I guess I concentrated on the things I was good at and muddled my way through the rest.”
“With filet mignon and baby potatoes. Poor you.” She kept her tone flippant, but inside she acknowledged he was right. She should stop being so surprised at his accomplishments.
