Page 36 of Rescued By the Mountain Man

The biggest conference room, where this meeting was taking place, was clear on the other side of the building, and we hurried past staff offices, storerooms, and—was that a kitchen? I broke into a half-walk, half-jog, my boots stomping on the tile floor, and came to the broad doors.

We got to the room, and Warrick opened the door for me, gesturing for me to step in before he did. The room was medium-sized, with white and gray walls, a long, scrubbed ash table in the middle, and ten cushy chairs all around. Three men were in the room: two older men with salt-n-pepper at their temples and another with an almost perfect dye job.

His slick Italian suit could have paid for my four-year college degree in one go and still have a good hunk of change left over.

“Ahh, Warrick.” Mayor Treeve stood and extended a hand. “Glad you made it.”

“We’re not late, are we?” Warrick asked while shaking Mayor Treeve's hand.

“No, Donovan, just in time.” Mayor Treeve nodded. “And Miss Zara, pleased to see you again. Mister Drayton, Mr. Peter Johnson…Miss Zara Harrington, Warrick’s new PA. Please, take a seat, you two.”

This Drayton guy turned to look at me; the tilt of his chin and the tiny smirk on his lips told me Warrick was right; this guy was a prick. “Miss Harrington, I have heard about you, but I did not think you were real.”

“Heard about me? From where?”

“This is a very small town. Rumors and whispers spread faster than fire in a dry field,” Drayton said. “Anyway, I asked the mayor to call you here to let you know that I will be exiting my place on the town council, and my son, William Drayton the Third, is going to take my place.”

First of all—was this guy allergic to contractions?

Second, people who gave their kids The Third or The Fifth, must have some patent on the Napoleon Complex. Drayton Senior looked over my shoulder. “God knows that boy still does not know how to read a watch.”

“Not so,” a strange voice said from the doorway. A tall man walked in with icy blue eyes—before I saw him wearing a darker version of what his father was wearing—told me he was Drayton’s son. “When is fashionably late a crime?”

Standing, Drayton Senior walked around the table and clapped his son’s shoulder. “About time you got here. How long was the drive?”

“Why would I drive?” William laughed. “JFK is much easier.”

I tensed—this man was from New York.

“You didn’t get Rellford up, did you?” Drayton asked.

“No; I didn’t call our pilot up. Besides, the Gulfstream is being retrofitted,” the younger Drayton—by this time, I was mentally calling them Douche Senior and Douche Two.

I looked at Warrick and saw him staring straight ahead, his face a slate rock. I didn’t know what he was thinking, but I sure was sneering inside. I hated humble braggers. So, they had a private plane; big whoop.

Drayton Two came forward, a tooth-commercial smile pasted on his face. “Pleased to meet you all. I assume you’re the Mayor, Mayor Treeve? My father talks about you all the time.”

The mayor pumped his hand with vigor. “Welcome to Silver Ridge, Mr. Drayton.”

“William, please,” Drayton Two replied. “No need for the extra formalities.”

“These are Mr. Peter Johnson, a local wildlife guide and an honored member of the Town Council and my office, while we have Warrick Donovan, a rancher, and his assistant, Miss Zara Harrington. I don’t know if you have had time to review the files your father sent you, but he is responsible for the proposition for the Processing Plant on the fifty acres outside of town. Your father was on that proposal but never got to it.”

“For seven fucking months,” Warrick muttered.

My head snapped to him—and my mouth dropped. That was the first time I had ever heard him curse.

“Oh,” William nodded. “I did read over them on the flight here. It sounds like a splendid investment and a solid move to make the town much more self-sufficient. I will look into it deeper. And you, Miss Harlington, was it?”

“Harrington,” I corrected.

“My mistake,” he said smoothly. “But, pleased to meet you as well. Are you native to Montana?”

“No…” I said, unsure of what to say. “I’m from out of town.”

“You do look like a Big City girl,” he said. “If you don’t mind me speaking. East Coast or West?”

“South,” I lied. “Miami, Florida.”

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