The Inherited Twins. Cathy Thacker Gillen

eyes glimmering with amusement, he waited for her to say something.

      Flushing, Claire flashed a smile. “This is awkward,” she said.

      “No kidding.”

      She took in the chiseled features beneath the thick black hair, the straight nose, the eminently kissable lips. “And you’re early.”

      He shrugged and stepped closer, inundating her with the compelling mixture of soap, man and sun-drenched November air. “I wasn’t sure how long it would take me to find the ranch.” He extended his hand for the obligatory greeting, then assisted her to her feet. A tingle of awareness swept through her.

      “I didn’t think you’d mind,” he added cordially.

      Claire probably wouldn’t have, had she not been down on the floor with the kids, speculating inappropriately about his lineage, at the exact moment he’d walked in.

      Ever so slowly, he released her hand, and she felt her palm slide across the callused warmth of his. She stepped back, aware she was tingling all over from the press of skin to skin.

      “You can call me Heath,” he told her.

      She swallowed nervously. “I’m Claire.” Aware of the little ones taking refuge at her sides, she cupped her hands around their shoulders and drew them closer, conveying that they would always be safe with her. “And this is Heidi and Henry, the beneficiaries of the trust.”

      Heath shook their hands solemnly. “Pleased to meet you, Heidi. Henry, nice to meet you also.”

      “Pleased ta meet you!” the twins echoed, on cue.

      Claire grinned, happy her lessons on manners were sinking in.

      “So when do you want to get started?” Heath asked in a more businesslike tone.

      “Just as soon as their sitter arrives,” Claire declared, glad he was putting them on more solid ground.

      FORTUNATELY FOR HEATH, that wasn’t long in coming. A pickup truck parked in front of the office and a petite woman, with cropped salt-and-pepper hair, got out. Claire introduced Mae Lefman, who, with a warm smile, led the children out of the office.

      Through the double hung windows that fronted the ranch office, Heath watched them go. “Nice place you’ve got here,” he remarked.

      He knew, of course, that the Red Sage Guest Ranch and Retreat had been in the Olander family for several generations, and that oil had been drawn from the ground, until the wells all went dry.

      Claire’s dad had dabbled in ranching and worked to restore the property to its natural state. Claire and her late sister and brother-in-law had figured out yet another way to earn a living from the twenty-nine-thousand-acre spread.

      Which was why he was here.

      Heath braced himself for what could be a very unpleasant meeting. Tensing visibly, Claire Olander gathered the flowing folds of her chiffon skirt close to her slender legs and sat down behind her desk. She wore a dark-green turtleneck sweater, the same hue as the floral pattern in her skirt, and a charcoal-gray corduroy blazer. Soft leather boots peeked out from beneath the hem of her skirt.

      Her hair was the same wildly curly honey-blond as her niece’s and nephew’s, the shoulder-length strands pulled back from her face in a clip on the back of her head. Silver feather earrings adorned her ears.

      She was a fair bit shorter than he was, even with the three-inch heels on the boots—maybe five foot seven. Slender. Feminine. Sexy in an innocent, angelic way. She was also stubborn. He could see it in the feisty set of her chin and the determined look in her long-lashed amber eyes.

      Claire Olander was used to having things her own way.

      And that, Heath knew, could be a problem.

      He sank into a chair opposite her. “As you know, I’ve been recently assigned by the bank to administer the trust your sister and her husband left for the twins.”

      “Right. The banker who was doing it retired from First Star Bank of Texas a few weeks ago.”

      Heath nodded. “As trustee, my duty is to protect the financial interests of the kids. I’m concerned. The results of the audit were not good.”

      This was, Heath noted, no surprise to Claire Olander. She held up a slender hand. “I’m aware the health of the business could be better, but I’ve only had the guest cottages up and running for the past eight months.”

      He had noted how shiny and new everything looked when he drove in. “Orrin Webb, my boss at the bank, told me you opened after the death of Liz-Beth and Sven.”

      With sadness flooding her face, Claire turned her attention to the scenery outside the window. “This was our dream. Neither of us wanted to sell the ranch. Nor were we interested in trying to run cattle here, the way our dad did.”

      “It’s my understanding that you inherited all the surface improvements on the property—meaning the ranch house and the barn—and your sister was bequeathed the mineral rights.”

      “The latter of which are worth nothing, since the wells here were pumped dry forty years ago.”

      “The land is owned jointly and can only be sold in one piece, if all parties agree.”

      “That’s correct.”

      Heath consulted his notes. “You and your sister had equal shares in the guest-ranch business.”

      Again Claire nodded.

      “Heidi and Henry received all their parents’ assets upon their death, all of which remain in trust.”

      “That’s correct.”

      Heath looked up again, as determined to do his job as she was to do hers. “Wherein lies the problem. The trust needs to be generating—not losing—income.The results of the annual audit in September show that the business is in the red.”

      “Some months it’s in the red, others it’s in the black. For instance, we were fully booked most of June, July and half of August.”

      Heath had known she was going to be difficult. “What about now?” he pressed.

      Her shoulders stiffened. “What do you mean?”

      “How many of the twelve guest cottages are rented?”

      Claire flushed. “Thanksgiving is two weeks away.”

      “That doesn’t answer my question.”

      She let out an aggravated breath and shot him a challenging look that in no way detracted from her femininity. “Right now, we have three of the cottages rented. Mr. and Mrs. Finglestein from upstate New York are here for two weeks. They’re avid birders. Ginger Haedrick is here until the house she is building is ready to move into—that may not be until Thanksgiving week, though she’d like to get in sooner and is pushing the builder along. It might work—Ginger is one of the real estate brokers in the area.”

      “I’ve met her.” She seemed ambitious, almost ruthlessly so. “She came by the bank to give me her business card, and offered to find me a place to live as soon as my town home in Fort Stockton sells.”

      “And then we have T. S. Sturgeon, the mystery writer, who’s here on deadline, trying to finish a book. I think she’ll be at least a few more weeks, but again, it all depends.”

      “Which means you have a quarter of the cottages rented,” he stated.

      “It’s off-season.”

      “How are the bookings for the holidays?”

      Claire Olander pursed her incredibly soft-looking lips. “Does it matter? It seems you’ve already made up your mind that the Red Sage Guest Ranch and Retreat is a failure.”

      “I didn’t say that.”

      Eyes flashing, she took a deep,