Cattleman's Heart. Lois Faye Dyer

the wooden tabletop. Hank forked steaks onto a platter and set it on the table.

      “Well, come on, set down and eat before everything gets cold.”

      Chairs scraped against the wooden floor, Mick and Gib jostling each other to pull out Rebecca’s chair. Jackson gave them a steely glare and they retreated to their own seats. Rebecca calmly seated herself and picked up her napkin.

      For a few moments, the silence was punctuated only by requests to pass food and the scrape of spoons and forks against bowls and plates.

      The quiet was broken by Gib.

      “So, Rebecca, you’re an accountant? In San Francisco?”

      “Yes.” She picked up her water glass and sipped. “I work for an investment firm downtown.”

      “And you do this often?” Mick asked.

      Rebecca glanced up. “Do I do what often?”

      “Travel to a strange place and live with strangers?”

      “I travel a lot,” she conceded. “But I usually stay in a hotel room by myself.”

      “And that doesn’t bother you, traveling all the time?” Gib asked, his voice curious.

      “No, not at all. I like visiting new places, meeting new people.”

      “And you don’t miss being at home?”

      Rebecca had a quick mental image of her San Francisco apartment with its few pieces of furniture and the unpacked boxes still shoved into closets after three years. Her busy traveling life left little time to build a nest. “I miss San Francisco,” she admitted. “I love the city. But I rarely get homesick when I’m away. I’m usually too busy working and exploring a new city.”

      “So most of your jobs are in the city?” Mick asked, ignoring his half-eaten steak to stare at her.

      “Until now, all of my clients have been located in medium to large cities. But that doesn’t mean that our firm never has clients in smaller towns.”

      “But you’ve never worked in a small town,” Jackson interjected.

      “No,” Rebecca admitted. She lifted an eyebrow, trying to keep annoyance from her voice. “Are you concerned about my ability to deal with a rural-based business rather than an urban corporation?”

      “No.” He shook his head. “I’m concerned with your ability to put up with the isolation of a ranch after living in the city.”

      “I have a car,” she pointed out. “And Colson isn’t that far away.”

      “True. But Colson isn’t San Francisco, not even close. You’re a long way from gourmet restaurants, Starbucks coffee and the opera.”

      “I don’t go to the opera.”

      He shrugged. “Then, the ballet. Whatever it is that you like to do in the city, you’re not likely to find here.”

      “Maybe not.” She narrowed her eyes, determined to squelch the urge to lose her temper. “But I’m sure there are other things unique to the area and unavailable in the city that I’ll find here.”

      He looked unconvinced. “I’m sure there are, but I doubt you’ll like any of them.”

      Rebecca forced a small smile. “I have no doubt I’ll find them fascinating. In any event, I won’t be here forever. Two or three months is longer than my usual assignments but the time will pass quickly enough.”

      “You don’t usually stay at a company for three months? Why so long this time?”

      His question seemed casual, but Rebecca didn’t miss the intensity with which he watched her.

      “I don’t know.” She was suddenly aware that everyone at the table had stopped eating, their attention wholly focused on her. She chose her words carefully. “As far as I know, this is the first time Bay Area Investments has made a loan to a rancher. Perhaps the company is being cautious because this is a trial project in a new area.”

      “Maybe.” Jackson was unconvinced. Gut instinct told him that she was holding something back. She sipped water, and her gaze met his without evasion over the rim of the glass. He didn’t think she was lying, but doubted she was telling him everything she knew.

      Rebecca glanced around the table. “This steak is excellent,” she said politely, changing the subject without worrying about subtlety. “Is it from beef raised here on the ranch?”

      Hank hooted. Jackson’s mouth twisted with wry humor.

      “I wish I could say yes. The few cattle left on the place when I took over were wild and tough as raw-hide.” He gestured at the steak on her plate. “This came from a neighbor. I traded him a side of beef for some repair work I did on his barn roof.”

      “So you don’t raise beef? I thought I read in the report that you raised cattle?”

      “I raise purebred bulls for breeding. A bull-breeding operation can be very profitable, if done right, but the start-up costs are prohibitive because of the high price of investing in good stock.”

      “Ah. I see.” Rebecca sipped her ice water and thought about his words. “So the initial investment is high, but the return is equally high?”

      “It can be. If you’re lucky. And careful.”

      “I understand that caution is important to any business, but how is being lucky important for profit in breeding bulls?”

      “Because there are a hundred problems that can keep a bull from being able to reproduce—if the owner is unlucky enough to have a sick bull, the profit is zero.”

      “I see.” Jackson’s comments brought home to Rebecca the inherent risk of investing in a business based on living animals. Once again, she wondered why her mother had gambled company money on the Rand Ranch.

      “And a purebred bull can be downright touchy about procreatin’,” Hank interjected. “No matter what the BSE report says, he might have problems.”

      “What’s a BSE report?” Rebecca inquired, curious.

      “It stands for Breeding Soundness Examination and it’s an exam by a vet to verify that the animal is healthy,” Jackson explained.

      “Oh.” Rebecca wasn’t sure just how much information she wanted him to explain to her about the breeding problems of bulls.

      Jackson pushed back his chair and stood, gathering up his plate and utensils.

      “When you’re done eating, I’ll show you the computer and the books.”

      “I’m finished.” She stood, too, and carried her plate and utensils to the sink.

      “It’s Gib and Mick’s night to wash the dishes.” Jackson took them from her. “You helped cook dinner, they’ll clean.”

      “All right.” Not about to argue, Rebecca tucked a strand of hair that had escaped from her ponytail holder back behind her ear. “If you’ll show me where the office is, I’ll be glad to get acquainted with the computer and your bookkeeping system.”

      “It’s down the hall, first door on the left.”

      He stood back, waiting for her to precede him, and Rebecca nodded to the others and left the room.

      The office was tucked between the kitchen and the stairway; Jackson pushed the door open and stood back to let Rebecca enter. Twice the size of her bedroom, the office had two tall sashed windows without curtains, white-painted walls, an old-fashioned oak desk and a bulky leather-covered sofa and chair. She took several steps into the room and paused, diverted by the large map that took up much of the wall behind the desk. A rough wood frame edged the glass that covered the yellowed hand-drawn map. The county was divided into ranches, heavy black lines marking the boundaries, while Colson and other towns were inked