Page 1 of Return of the Rancher

One

Was it possible to go home to a place where you had never really belonged?

India Lamont gathered her oversize purse and her carry-on and stepped out of the small turboprop plane into the raw early-January wind. Jackson Hole/JAC was the only commercial airport in the country located inside a national park. Immediately, the jagged snow-covered peaks of the Grand Tetons captured her attention, looming large over the modest facility. The mountains demanded respect.

Much like the man India had come here to meet, the Wyoming range was sharp, forbidding, dangerous.

She pulled the sides of her coat around her and descended the steps onto the tarmac. Today, she had flown from LaGuardia to Atlanta to Salt Lake City and, finally, to Jackson Hole. She was tired and anxious and not at all sure she was doing the right thing.

Farris had wanted her to come straight to the house. India had demurred. She was booked into a room at the Wort Hotel for two nights. She had insisted this initial meeting be on neutral ground. If Farris understood her motives, he didn’t let on. His texts had been curt and to the point. He would meet her for breakfast at nine the following morning.

India was relying on the presence of other diners to keep the situation from escalating. Her ex-husband was forceful and quite accustomed to getting his own way. But India wouldn’t be pressured. She had questions, and she wanted to test his mood before committing to a plan that would put her under his roof for at least three months.

Riding the shuttle from the airport to the town of Jackson was a necessary evil. The airport was ten miles north, just off the highway that led to Yellowstone National Park. On a sunny summer day, the drive was postcard worthy. Today, the low clouds and spritzes of snow painted the landscape in ominous monochrome shadows.

India wrestled her large suitcase and two smaller items up the bus steps, stowed them and settled into her seat with a sigh. If she had agreed to Farris’s preferred plan, a private car would have picked her up at the airport. She had declined.

When she finally reached the lobby of her hotel, the gorgeous holiday decorations were in direct counterpoint to her mood. Two employees were in the process of taking them down. Christmas was over. Now everyone idled in that depressing period after the January 1 festivities.

While other people were preparing resolutions to improve their health and businesses and relationships, India was about to take a step that might destroy her. This wasn’t the way she wanted to start a new year.

She checked in at the front desk, mildly disconcerted to discover that she had received a complimentary upgrade to a suite. Was that Farris’s doing, or was she being paranoid? Minutes later, the bellman opened the door to 106B, deposited her bags and accepted her tip with a nod.

After that, India was alone with her thoughts.

Her phone was still on airplane mode, by design. Now, reluctantly, she changed the setting and winced at the series of text dings that came rolling in. Her best friend, Nancy, wanted to know if she had arrived safely. India sent an affirmative reply.

Four of the texts were from Farris. Demanding information. Sounding autocratic even at a distance. She decided to ignore those, but then realized that he would only keep texting. Instead of answering the barrage of questions, she sent back a simple reply: I’ll meet you tomorrow morning at nine in the hotel dining room.

She could almost see him grinding his teeth, his jaw firming like concrete, his blue eyes flashing with displeasure.

That was too damn bad. She was free of his spell.

As she unpacked the few things she would need for the night, it was impossible to shut off the stream of memories. She and Farris had been lovers for six months, husband and wife for barely three years and, most recently, divorced for half a decade.

Her life was her own now. She had moved on. Farris was merely a youthful mistake.

Beneath the stinging spray of a hot shower, there was no one to see if her wet cheeks were covered as much in salty tears as in water. She could tell herself the misery and grief were far in the past. But her heart knew the truth.

She was still vulnerable where Farris Quinn was concerned. Terribly so. The trick would be in not letting him know. If he sensed any weakness in her at all, he would exploit it. That was how he had amassed a fortune on the stock exchange. It was how he gobbled up small businesses like candy. It was how he operated. Period.

When she was dry and blessedly warm, tucked beneath the covers of a remarkably comfortable bed, she yawned and reached for calm. Tomorrow would be a difficult day. She would either end up going home with Farris, or she would find herself boarding a plane to make the journey back to New York.

When she turned out the lights, the questions mocked her. She told herself she had a choice. No one could force her to stay.

That internal reassurance was no reassurance at all.

The following morning, India applied mascara with a shaking hand. Hazel eyes stared back at her from the mirror. Her cheeks were pale. Dark smudges beneath her lower lashes attested to her sleepless night. She seldom wore much makeup, but today she erred on the side of self-preservation. She wouldn’t dare let Farris know she was upset.

Her blond hair was chin length now. Farris had liked it long, so to spite a man who would never see the result, she had spent the last five years cutting it off. As an act of defiance? Who knew?

There was only one reason she had come this far. Dottie. Dorothy Quinn. Farris’s mother. Dottie had been a source of comfort during India’s marriage to Farris. To honor that relationship, India had come at Farris’s request. To hear what he had to say. Dottie was ill. She needed company.

Whether or not India could or would stay remained to be seen. A lot depended on this face-to-face conversation with her ex.

She paused in the hallway just outside the dining room and steadied her breathing. No one waited here. When she peeked around the corner, all her available oxygen evaporated. Farris was already seated.

From this vantage point, his features were in profile—classic and handsome, except for the bump on the bridge of his nose. Dottie told India once upon a time that Farris brawled a lot as a boy. He’d been small for his age, and he’d made up for it by taking the world on his chin.

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