Or maybe he should fly back to Denver. If this moratorium thing was broader than the immediate Lyndon area, he might as well go to a big firm with plenty of capacity.
And his clock was ticking. If the Craig Mountain Brewery construction didn’t get started in the next couple of weeks, they’d end up with a shortage of C Mountain Ale, and they wouldn’t be able to fill their spring orders for Red, White and Brew. That would most certainly mean the downfall of DFB.
“There are definitely law firms in Lyndon.” Lucas answered the question. “Sole proprietorships mostly. And I don’t know if they’ve been involved in the issue. Honestly, if I was going for the greatest concentration of knowledge on this, I’d be going to the Ranchers Association.”
“Didn’t you just say they were on the other side?”
“I did.”
“So, then, that would be a foolish move.”
“Well.” Lucas scratched the back of his neck. “If you don’t want to go to the Ranchers Association, you can try Abigail Jacobs.”
“Who’s she?”
“The daughter of one of the ranching families. I was told she has an encyclopedia for a brain and a passion for the water-rights issue.”
“She’s still the enemy.”
“Maybe. Technically.”
“So she’s not going to help us.”
“You can always get creative. You don’t have to tell her exactly what you’re looking for. Just meet her and, I don’t know.” Lucas looked Zach up and down. “Tell her she’s pretty or something, take her out for dinner and a movie, then ask a lot of questions.”
“You want me to romance the information out of some unsuspecting woman?”
“If she’s a research geek, maybe she hasn’t had a date for a while.”
“Did we not give you an ethics quiz before we hired you?”
“I had a dysfunctional upbringing.”
“So did I, but I still have standards. I’m going with the lawyer.” The clock might be ticking, but Zach had absolutely no intention of lying to this Abigail Jacobs for his own ends.
The Jacobs ranch covered thousands of acres in the Lyndon Valley of western Colorado. As it had become more prosperous, Abigail’s grandfather, and then her father, had purchased more and more land. The main house was two stories high, with six bedrooms, overlooking the Lyndon River to the east. To the west the Rockies rose, their peaks jutting to the blue sky behind the three main barns, several horse corrals and a massive equipment garage.
Staff cottages and two low bunkhouses snaked along the riverbank, forming a semicircle around the big cookshack that welcomed cowboys and farmhands with wholesome food and pots of brewed coffee any time of the day or night. Born and raised here, Abigail knew there were many things to love about the Jacobs ranch, and she now spent her days reminding herself she could be happy here. She climbed the front stairs, the summer day’s sweat soaking through her T-shirt, dampening her hairline and wicking into the band of her Stetson. As she started across the porch, she heard male voices through the open living-room windows. The sun was slipping low in the hot August sky. The breeze had dropped to nothing. And a dozen horseflies buzzed a lazy patrol pattern beneath the shade of the peaked porch roof. She slapped her hat against her leg, brushed the excess dust from the front of her jeans, then checked her boot heels for mud.
The voices grew louder, more distinct. One was her brother Travis. The other was vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t quite place it.
“And you expect
“I could have lied,” the other voice returned reasonably. “But in the interest of-”
“Is that supposed to impress me? That you stopped short of lying?”
“I’m not looking to impress you.”
Wondering who her brother was arguing with, Abigail moved toward the door. In the week since she’d returned to the ranch, there’d been a steady stream of friends and neighbors stopping by, expressing their congratulations on Seth’s victory and inquiring about Abigail’s father, who was expected home from the Houston rehab center in the next few weeks.
“Lucky for you that you’re not,” scoffed Travis.
“I just want some information, and then I’ll be on my-”
“You’ll be on your way right now.”
“Not before I talk to Abigail.”
Abigail stopped short. Who
“Abigail’s not here.”
“Then I’ll wait.”
“I don’t think so.”
Well, whoever it was, he wasn’t going to have to wait long, and it was going to be a pretty short conversation. Abigail had a hot shower in her sights, followed by dinner and maybe a nice glass of Shiraz. Then she was falling directly into bed. She wasn’t exactly out of shape, but it had been several months since she’d done full-time ranch work, and her long shift on the oat field today had been exhausting.
“Nobody gets to Abby unless they go through me,” Travis stated.
From the entry hall, Abigail could picture her brother’s square shoulders, his wide stance, the hard line of his chin. He was endearingly, if unnecessarily, protective. She pushed down the door latch with her thumb and silently opened the door.
The unknown man’s voice came from around the corner, inside the big living room. “Craig Mountain’s new usage will be negligible in the scheme of things.”
“And what better way to set precedent?” Travis responded. “You’re the thin edge of the wedge.”
“I’m brewing beer, not setting precedent. It’s one little underground spring.”
“It’s still part of the aquifer.”
Abigail dropped her hat on a peg by the door and raked back her damp, dusty hair. Her ponytail was definitely the worse for wear. Then again, so were her dirty hands and her sweaty clothes. But she was back on the ranch now. And she wasn’t looking to impress anyone. So who cared?
During the local-water-rights hearings a few months ago, she’d listened to every argument in the book. It wouldn’t take her long to send this guy packing.
She rounded the corner. “Hey, Travis.”
Her brother scowled.
The broad-shouldered man in the expensive business suit pivoted to face her.
As he did, she went stock-still. Her stomach plummeted to her toes, while waves of sound roared in her ears.
His dark eyes widened.
“Lucky what?” asked Travis, glancing from one to the other.
Abigail’s brain stumbled, and an exaggerated second slipped by. “Lucky I got here when I did,” she managed to say on a hollow laugh.
Where on earth had he come from? What was he doing standing here arguing with her brother?
Before she could formulate any kind of question, Lucky stepped forward, holding out his hand. “Zach Rainer. You must be Abigail. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Mr. Rainer was just leaving,” Travis put in with finality.
“I own the Craig Mountain Brewery,” Zach continued, his voice betraying none of the recognition evident in his expression.
“I…uh…” Her throat closed over. “I’m Abigail,” she managed to rasp, giving his hand a perfunctory shake. The sizzle of his brief touch ricocheted up her arm.
“Then you’re the woman I’m here to see. I understand you have some expertise on the regional-water-rights
