Page 4 of Old-Fashioned Rancher

“It’s still not happening,” I replied.

Avery crossed her arms.

“You’re such a stick in the mud.”

“And now you sound just like your mother. Did you think you could out-stubborn me, young lady?” I said, amused. “You got me into this mess, so you’re going to get me out of it. As soon as we’re back in town, fix it.”

She winced.

“Do you really want Ash Ridge hearing about how you backed out of your commitment? Your word has always been your solemn vow, Dad. It’s practically sacred.”

“I didn’t make this promise,” I protested. “I don’t know how you managed to do it, but you started this. Not me.”

“Doesn’t change the fact that the McCall name is still signed on the dotted line.”

Damn it. My Achilles’s heel. She had me trapped like a worm on a hook all because of my damn pride and she knew it. When I commit to doing something, I always follow through, come hell or high water.

“Avery…” I said in a warning tone.

“Don’t be mad,” she said in a rush. “I was only looking out for my aging father. I didn’t want you to be alone,” she added, softening her tone and widening her eyes like a kicked puppy.

No matter how old my daughter would get, she knew how to pluck my heartstrings and play me like a fiddle.

“Don’t act all innocent,” I said. “And I didn’t appreciate the remark about my aging, by the way. I’m fifty-two. That doesn’t mean I have one foot in the grave, for God’s sake.”

Avery grinned, toed off her boots and propped her feet on the dashboard.

“I think it will be great to have the festival at the ranch. It’s huge, with plenty of room to spread out. Since you’re always working, you rarely get a chance to meet new people. This way, the whole town will come to you.”

I guided my truck back into traffic, envisioning my ranch overrun with hundreds of people. I wasn’t going to like this one little bit.

“Goddamn it, Avery,” I said with a sigh of defeat.

“Love you, too, Dad,” she chirped, pleased with herself that she got her way. “Oh, I almost forgot. The florist will be at the ranch first thing tomorrow morning to discuss flower arrangements for the party.”

I shook my head, bewildered that I’d been roped into Avery’s perfectly laid plan like a spider’s web.

Chapter 2

Birdie

At eight o’clock in the morning on the dot, I arrived at High Plains Ranch. The magnificent gated arch was an ostentatious display, depicting a stampede of horses and cattle, kicking up billowing clouds of dust, rendered in metal. The ranch’s name was spelled out in bold letters across the top.

I sucked in a steadying breath to quell the jittery nerves in my belly. Maybe I should have skipped that shot of espresso this morning. It was bad enough knowing that I was about to provide floral arrangements for one of the wealthiest men in Ash Ridge. Grady McCall wasn’t exactly known to be a friendly, easy-going man. His bullheaded ways, backbone of steel, and ruthless ethics had scared off lesser men who chickened out of doing business with him.

His temper wasn’t the part that bothered me about all this though. If I screwed up, the whole town would know that I bungled flowers for a millionaire.

God help me.

After navigating the winding driveway over a mile long, the McCall home came into view and my jaw dropped. The house was massive, standing two stories tall, with a pair of natural rock chimneys flanking either end of the building. A porch stretched across the front of the house, disappearing around the back, but there wasn’t a scrap of decor in sight. Not even a potted plant. Two lonely rocking chairs were tucked together at the corner.

Did anyone even use that gigantic porch? Or were they too busy running the ranch to spend time making their house a home?

To my right was a barn, two corrals, and several other smaller buildings that I couldn’t identify. One of them had to be the bunkhouse. On a ranch this size, the McCalls would need hired hands to do the hard labor required to keep everything running smoothly.

Shaking my head, I pulled to a stop outside of the house and parked. I couldn’t imagine living like this. At forty-three years old, I’d managed to make a modest life for myself by running the local flower shop, Lavender Lane. It wasn’t much money—just enough to cover bills with some spare change left over at the end of every month—but I was proud of it.

I retrieved the coffee and pastries from the seat next to me, tucked my old battered iPad under my arm, and stepped out of my vintage Ford truck. Crisp, cool mountain air greeted me. I shivered, regretting the fact that I’d left my scarf at home.

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