Nia Lindley marched into her father’s office. “Why do we need a new foreman?”
Her father set down his glass of water near the open ledger and picked up a feather pen. “Rusty is heading to California to be near his daughter.”
Nia slapped dust off her leather chaps, resigned to another of Mrs. Lambert’s lectures about traipsing dirt and grime through the house.
Papa scratched numbers into a column. “And none of the cowboys out there have the brains or gumption to be a straw boss.”
“True.” Nia rubbed her forehead where the hat chaffed. She’d pretended she knew all about the cowboy competition in front of the men, but despite what they thought, Papa rarely consulted her before making decisions. “Some of them aren’t happy about it. Davis, in particular.”
“Davis is a gambler. I’ll suffer it in the men, but not in a boss.” He set the pen back in its stand and eyed her across the massive desk. “Sit down, Petunia.”
Nia plopped onto the chair. Why did he insist on calling her Petunia when he knew how much she hated it?
“We need to talk, you and I.” Papa leaned forward, his elbows resting on the papers scattered across the desk. “With Marigold engaged, it’s time to decide how to divide your inheritance.”
Her scalp prickled. “But… we have years before then.”
“No man knows his days or hours. Your mother’s death taught me that.” He took a sip of water. “Marigold has no love for the Double L. She’s too eager to become a fine society hostess.”
Mama had hosted parties two or three times a year. Since her death, there had been two balls at the Double L, one for Nia’s sixteenth birthday—she shuddered at the memory—and one for Mari’s. Like Mama’s prize roses, Mari was withering from lack of nourishment.
Papa scratched his graying sideburns. “I’ve had an offer for the Double L. It’s a good one.”
“What?” Nia gripped the armrests and rose a couple of inches. “Sell the ranch? Why?”
“I’m not well.” He coughed into his hand. “Doc says I have a couple months left.”
“What? H–how?” She fell back into the chair, strength gone.
He pierced her with a fierce gaze. “The details don’t matter. There’s nothing can be done but accept what’s coming.”
Nia held her ribs to keep her heart from shattering. “I refuse to believe that.”
Her mother’s death stabbed as keenly today as when it happened eight years ago. It was too much to think of her father dying. But she’d seen the signs and, in her fear, tossed them aside like soiled hay.
“What you believe doesn’t make something less true, Petunia.” His tone was matter-of-fact. “It’s time to make final arrangements so I can go to my grave knowing you and your sister are settled. Marigold will have Humphrey to look after her.” He twirled his thumbs. “He’s a good man, but he’s a banker. The Double L would suffer with him in charge.”
“Then leave it to me.” The words felt like a betrayal. Like she was hastening her father’s demise by saying them aloud.
“I thought of that. You’ve done well with keeping the books and tracing stock, but—as you know—we’ve had a little trouble with your judgment where men are concerned.”
She jerked back. What more could she do to make up for her past? She’d sworn off men, stayed home when Mari went to visit Aunt Minnie in Dallas County, and avoided local shindigs. She worked like a man, dressed like a man, and rode a man’s saddle. The only thing she’d not forsaken was her love of poetry. Besides, what did her judgment in men have to do with running the ranch?
“I’m concerned that, after I’m gone, you’ll fall prey to shysters and their ilk.”
Would he never forgive her for the dancing master or her sixteenth birthday? She was twenty-four. Childish dreams of finding a prince charming died long ago. “I’m a much better judge of character these days.”
He cocked his head to one side. “Are you?”
“Yes.” Her fingers dug bruises into her ribs.
His blue eyes brightened. “If I could be assured of that, I’d be willing to leave the Double L to you and settle a commensurate amount on Marigold and Humphrey.”
Nia wanted to run. Be anywhere but here. Discuss anything but how to carry on after her father died. “I… I don’t know how to prove it to you.”
He squeezed his chin between his thumb and index finger. “My advertisement for the cowboy competition says I reserve the right to make my selection based on character. What if you help me judge? You show me you’re no longer susceptible to sweet-talkers, and I’ll leave the ranch to you. Otherwise, I sell it and split the money between you and Marigold. Agreed?”
She hated the idea but couldn’t lose her home. Not on top of everything else. “Agreed.”