Cowboy Proud. Kelli Ireland

      “You’re here,” The Voice deadpanned.

      “If by ‘here’ you mean at the airport, then yes,” she answered, irritated that The Voice offered no courtesy. “More specifically, in case you missed it, said airport is in Amarillo. That would be Texas. Right inside the infamous Panhandle. I’m staring out the huge glass windows at a landscape that’s flat, dust-colored as far as the eye can see, and the wind is blowing. It isn’t even remotely similar to the brochure Michael created. Still, if that’s what you’re referring to as ‘here,’ then the answer stands.”

      “I should have asked, ‘Why are you here?’” he clarified.

      “Unannounced visit to put you through your paces before your guests arrive.” She tried not to fume at his ensuing curse. “We have fourteen days to work out any last-minute issues.”

      He sighed. Something—a hand?—slid over the receiver on the opposite end. The Voice entered into a brief, muffled discussion with what sounded like another man and a woman. The Voice’s words, though indiscernible, conveyed his frustration loud and clear. If the dude ranch intended to operate this way, they wouldn’t last a single tourist season.

      The Voice’s hand must have slipped from the receiver because Emmaline was able to determine the three were arguing over who would drive in to retrieve her. Travelers, particularly those with both the money for the experience and those bringing children, wouldn’t tolerate being abandoned at tiny airports as their well-paid “hosts” argued heatedly over who was supposed to have been at the airport to pick them up.

      She’d have to put an end to this and figure it out on her own. “Excuse me?”

      Nothing. No response whatsoever.

      “Excuse me,” she said again, louder.

      Still no response.

      “Hey!” she shouted, ignoring the startled glances from the few passersby in the tiny airport.

      “Give me a minute,” The Voice ordered.

      She ran her fingers through her pixie cut, well aware it would make the ends stand up and not caring one whit. “I’ve given you more than forty-five between landing and now. If I were an actual customer, I’d be watching the clock, too. Now you’re telling me, not asking me, to give you more time. Not the best foot to start out on.”

      “You’re here unannounced, so cut me a little slack.” His words were short and sharp.

      “I am, yes. And I won’t, no,” she snapped. “You have one chance to make a first impression. So far? You’ve blown it. Badly. You’ll have to do better with your paying customers or you’re finished before you get started.”

      Silence traveled between them, weaving together to form palpably fractious tension. This was far from the first instance she’d had to assert herself as a woman in a male-dominant world, and if The Voice believed he could wait her out, he had another think coming.

      Several minutes passed, the only sound between them their mutual breathing.

      The man in the background muttered something and The Voice sighed again, covered the mouthpiece and responded. Then he returned, his breathing soft and steady.

      Enough was enough. She’d simply explain to the nameless man that he’d failed her test. She’d send Eli suggestions to fix the problems, namely to find an exceptional surgeon to perform an emergency personality transplant on The Voice. She’d wager everyone would benefit from it.

      Leaving would also get her out of covering for Michael on an account where she was personally, uncharacteristically, out of her depth. He had briefed her on the dude ranch before she caught her flight to No Man’s Land, but he hadn’t mentioned what an incredibly tight-knit family the Covingtons were. She’d picked that up based on correspondence and notes she’d read on the flight into Amarillo. Everything in the file indicated the importance the family had placed—and The Voice had reemphasized—in keeping the ranch an intimate experience, not a commercial Wild West attraction.

      Emma knew nothing about families, or how to foster intimacy in any way. A revolving staff of nannies and housekeepers had raised her, faces changing with predictable regularity. No one was ever good enough for her mother, efficient enough for her father or around long enough for the child Emma had been.

      That left adult Emma entirely out of her element when it came to family units like the Covingtons. What they had was what she’d coveted all her life, and she had no more idea how to preserve it than she had to fit into it.

      That decided it. She’d grab the next flight out of this dustbowl and return to Manhattan. Besides, skipping the dude ranch’s inaugural goat roasting or greased pig wrestling or whatever it was wouldn’t be a hardship. She opened her mouth to bow out at the same moment The Voice spoke.

      “I’m sincerely sorry for the inconvenience.” He paused, clearly out of his element when it came to apologies. “The trip to Amarillo is almost three hours from here. If you’d like to catch a cab to a restaurant, I can pick you up there. Or, if you’d prefer to get a hotel and have a staff member pick you up tomorrow, the ranch will gladly reimburse any expenses you incur. Whatever makes you most comfortable is fine with us, Ms. Graystone.”

      “It’ll take you three hours to get here?”

      He cleared his throat. “Yes, ma’am.”

      “It’s early enough in the day to have you come get me at the airport, but—”

      “Can I call you back in a second?” The Voice interrupted.

      “Sure.” Emmaline dropped into a chair at baggage claim. “My cell should be on your caller ID.”

      “We don’t have caller ID out here unless we use our cell or SAT phones. What’s your number?”

      She rattled it off.

      Paper tore. “Gimme a minute.” He disconnected before she could respond.

      She thumbed her phone off and buried her face in her hands. This wasn’t the vision she’d had when she agreed to fill in for Michael. Not even close.

      She’d intended to swoop in, wow her country clients, gain a solid recommendation from a new business she believed would be highly successful and disappear immediately after the inaugural event. The high-profile clients they’d invited to the event would get a chance to see her in action, get to know her just a little. Business would pick up again. Things would turn around. She’d figure out why the firm’s profit and loss statement looked as if it was bleeding out for the first time ever. She’d fix it. She’d hire a forensic accountant to examine her books for fraudulent activity. She’d be able to trust Michael again when the P&L was verified, when her suspicions were proven erroneous. She wouldn’t doubt his professed loyalty or the fact he was now out of the office more than he was in. All of these things would be resolved. She’d be able to breathe again, to reclaim control of the company and buy Michael out if she had to.

      All of which meant she had to stay and somehow make things work with the Covingtons. She was swallowing a prescription antacid when the phone rang. Choking, she bumped Accept and the call connected. Eyes watering, she wheezed out something that resembled, “Emma.”

      The Voice was there. “You okay, Ms. Graystone?”

      “Stellar,” she rasped through the next round of harsh coughing.

      He waited her out, then said, “I’m going to drive in and pick you up.”

      Her brows winged up. “You? You’re coming to get me yourself?”

      He ignored her untempered surprise. “If I leave now, we’ll be at the ranch in time for dinner.” Clothing rustled in the background, and what sounded like first one and then another heavy shoe thumped against the floor. “Where do you want me to pick you up?”

      Emma glanced around as she fought to recover her bearings. “The airport has Wi-Fi, so I suppose