It's always burned, though, and he deserves to drink burned coffee. He deserves it because he betrayed her, and now he was just going to hurt some other woman.

He reaches over and grabs the little brown box full of index cards, where he's written down numbers over the past fifteen years. It's not quite a Rolodex, like they used to use, and if the boys saw it then no doubt they'd have a whale of a time giving him s.h.i.t about it.

But he thumbs through it until he sees a name that he's looking for, punches the number into his phone, and waits until it starts ringing.

A woman's voice answers. That's a surprise by itself. But the name she gives is the same one he's used to.

"This is Phil Callahan, over at the Callahan ranch."

"Good morning, Mr. Callahan. How can we help you?"

"I've got a horse I'm looking to sell. I've got all his papers. I think that Glen will be interested."

"Would you like to make an appointment to have Mr. Brand come look at it?"

"Sure. Whenever is fine, I'll be here."

"How's Thursday afternoon, around two?"

"Thursday afternoon sounds great," Philip says. He lets out a breath. Glen Brand used to be a little name in a big game, but he wanted to win. And like most people who wanted to win, and who were committed to winning, he was willing to spend the money it took to get there.

If he had a secretary, that was proof by itself that he'd found what he was looking for.

Maybe, if Callahan was very lucky, he was looking for more of it.

Chapter Fourteen.

Morgan Lowe knows that there's a next step. There's always a next step, and she knows that sometimes the next step is to do nothing.

This doesn't feel like one of those times. It feels like there's something she should be doing. This feels like a junction for her. More than that, it feels like it could be a major turning point for Phil Callahan.

The way he was looking at her didn't leave much question about what he was thinking. He'd pulled out of her and not one second later he'd started blaming himself for the whole thing.

He'd started thinking, maybe it was all his own fault. Nothing could have been further from the truth, but that wasn't going to be something that she could just tell him.

She'd made her choices. She'd decided to do what she did. The best thing she could do was sit down and talk it out. He wasn't ready to talk last night. Any idiot could have seen that.

Maybe after a night's rest he could give it some serious thought. Maybe he could see things clearer. Maybe she could sit down and talk things out.

They could get closer. Maybe they could even grow from the entire experience. Was it the right decision to have made? No. She was pretty sure that it wasn't. It was a mistake by all accounts. But there's a big difference between something being a mistake and something being unrecoverable.

The situation was far from being unrecoverable. If she got over there, and she talked to him, then she could probably make everything go back to the way it was. Better than the way it was.

She could have a relationship based on more than just her constant nagging need to be involved in his affairs, built on more than just nagging him into oblivion to pretty-please give selling her the property some thought.

And once a relationship like that was established, you could start seriously working on getting things done.

Which would be very nice to have. It would be extremely nice. It could all lead up to that big win that she's needed. All she had to do was go talk to him, get the air cleared up.

Which is why it's so frustrating that leaving the grounds is the one thing she absolutely cannot do. Brad leans his weight on the desk in front of her with a wolfish smile.

"How's the Callahan ranch going? You drafting up papers yet?"

Whatever he knows, or thinks he knows, he thinks he's got something that will get under her skin.

"It's a work in progress," she says. Flatly.

"You ought to know, the old man's never going to sell that ranch. Never in a million years. Might as well give up. Woman like you, he'll take you for everything you're worth and then drop you with nothing to show for it."

"Thank you for your advice, Brad. I'll keep that under advis.e.m.e.nt."

"No problem. I know why you're trying to get it. Would look real good to the board. n.o.body doubts why you're doing it, and it's a good idea, on some level. But babe-" Morgan bristles at being called 'babe' but keeps it to herself- "you got to admit. It's just not going to happen. You want a man's opinion, that's my opinion."

She hadn't asked him for his opinion, in fact. What she'd asked him for was some feedback on why the crews she'd specifically asked him to keep an eye on were a solid day behind.

And then it had all been a bunch of questions about the Callahan ranch.

"Well, thank you very much, Brad. Did you want to tell me what the h.e.l.l is going on with crews three and four?"

"Some kinda problem. They say they can't dig."

"If that's the case, then why wasn't I notified?"

"What do I look like to you, some kinda idiot? We were taking care of it, so you didn't need to be called. d.a.m.n, girl."

Her shoulders were tight, and it took everything she could muster not to launch right across the desk and rip his throat right out.

"I'm in charge here, Mr. Lang. Don't forget that. You've got not one, but two crews being insubordinate, and you don't bother to contact me once?"

"You were busy," he says. He shrugs.

The son of a b.i.t.c.h keeps arguing like this and she's going to kill him.

"Too busy for a text? So you thought that meant you were in charge? You think you own this factory, you-"

"What the f.u.c.k is with you today? Hormones or something?"

She wants to slap him. She wants nothing more in this life than to slap the h.e.l.l out of him. She bites down on the inside of her cheeks instead, tightens her toes inside her shoes.

"I'm going to talk to the crew chiefs of three and four. You're done for the day. See you tomorrow."

He shrugs again. "Whatever, boss. Y'want to overreact, I won't stop you."

"You're lucky I don't fire your a.s.s, you insubordinate little piece of-"

He's already turned, already shrugging on his coat. He's got no interest in listening to her.

Something inside her says she ought to fire him. n.o.body in the world would tell her that she'd been unreasonable to do it. That was some of the most insubordinate garbage she's ever heard come out of anyone's mouth.

Right to her face, no less. Right to her G.o.d d.a.m.ned face. And yet, a little voice reminded her. He was in good with the guys. She fired him, it would seem like a reflection on the guys that liked him.

She swallowed her anger. She'd have to ignore it as best she could, because there were bigger, more important concerns than whatever the f.u.c.k Brad Lang thought he could do. Bigger than his being a piece of s.h.i.t.

Right now, she had to get out there on the grounds and find out why, specifically, they say they can't dig. Then she's got to figure out what to do about it, and she's got to do it in a hurry.

The factory's supposed to be up in two months, and running in four. Every day counts. Every day. And every time that Brad Lang lets a crew get behind, it's a big G.o.d d.a.m.n mess to clean it up that only gets bigger as the timeline goes on.

Little inefficiencies like that cause big ripples. It might not seem like much now. It might seem like he can handle it.

He's not going to be the one standing there on the stage when someone asks her why they desecrated some burial grounds, and she has to look like a G.o.d d.a.m.ned fool because she doesn't have an answer for them.

He's not going to be the one who has to stand in front of the members of the board and explain why she thought it would be a good idea to create a public relations nightmare that could kill the company outright if they weren't careful.

So whatever the problem was, if she didn't have her hands on it, then she didn't want it solved. Because six months from now, a year from now, two years from now, the solution isn't going to fall down on Brad Lang's head.

It's going to fall down on hers. So she'd better be G.o.d d.a.m.n prepared to answer that question when it comes up, and the only way she can do that is if they keep her in the f.u.c.king loop.

She takes a deep breath. She shouldn't let herself get riled up like this.

But it's too late now. She straightens her back, pulls back her shoulders. It's past time for her to take back control of this G.o.d d.a.m.n build site.

Chapter Fifteen.

It wasn't until the boys were already out working the field that the mail came for the day. It was always like that. Philip took a deep breath and mopped at his forehead. It wasn't as if tending animals was easy work, and even in the coolness of the spring it was hot inside the barn.

Still, the man standing at the barn door called out his name and he answered.

"I've got a letter for you," the mailman says.

"Good," Callahan calls back. What's that supposed to mean?

"Needs a signature, Mr. Callahan."

"I'll be right there."

He carries himself out to the door. The cool breeze blowing in cools his skin comfortably, and he takes a moment before he accepts the little electronic sign-in and scrawls his name on the screen with the plastic stylus.

The scribble that results is vaguely similar in some ways to the signature he might have put down on paper, but the man looks at it and shrugs. Good enough. Then he hands over the letter. His hands straight into Phil Callahan's.

On the front is a label he'd hoped never to see. The Internal Revenue Service was sending him a love-letter, it seemed.

The mailman turns and starts walking off as Callahan tears open the envelope and pulls the papers inside out. Whatever productive work he might have done today is pretty much out the window at this point.

Callahan's blood pressure jumps through the roof as he reads. Each time that it seems as if it can't get any worse, it just does.

A G.o.d d.a.m.ned audit? This is hardly the time for that. He's got no time at all. And all because they think he made more than he filed?

He would almost laugh, if it wasn't so G.o.d d.a.m.n frustrating. He'd made next to nothing the past two years. Next to nothing. It was only thanks to the savings he'd built up, when things looked like they might actually be looking up, that he could even keep the place open.

The ranch was relying almost entirely on the hope of getting twenty grand or so from the Black that would put them back on track. If they could do that, then they could get a younger mare, they could get back to seriously breeding again.

The Black was as quick as greased lightning. He should have been thirty. Forty if he found a real good buyer. But now, Callahan had to hope for twenty. And then he had to hope that he could find the right breeding stock and do it for pennies.

Another year without making much of anything. But at least, if he was lucky, this year could be one where he broke even at the end of it.

With an audit going on, though, it's that much harder to do anything at all. It probably wouldn't even be wise to sell the d.a.m.n Black. If they drop another ten thousand in taxes on him, then there's just no way to pay it.

Callahan settles against the side of his truck and reads through the letter again. The answer is obvious, but it's not one that he likes. He needs money, and he needs it in a hurry.

There's only two places he could make that kind of money, on a good day. Selling the Black, and fleecing some guy for all he's worth, that's the first.

The second... well, it's only a ten minute drive on the highway to get to the Lowe Industrial build site. The thought turns his stomach.

But a ranch somewhere is better than no ranch at all, and with the government about to be digging around and trying to find anything they can to make his life h.e.l.l, it might be the only option.

He'll have to make a decision, and soon. The big hope is that the meeting with Glen goes real well, and he can get the Black gone as soon as possible.

Barring that...

Callahan cuts his own thoughts off. There is no 'barring that.' He'll have to hope to h.e.l.l it happens. Because there's no way that he can let the ranch go.

Chapter Sixteen.

Her blood was still boiling after the morning's little... chat with Brad. He hadn't come back, which was something. He didn't seem like the kind of person who took "go home" as anything but a challenge.