McKettrick's Luck by Linda Lael Miller

Cheyenne. Sure, that whole creek thing got by me, but the fact is, we depend pretty heavily on that water in dry years, down on the Triple M. Even if I wanted to sell that land to a developer—and we’ve already established that I don’t—I couldn’t put the ranch in jeopardy like that.”
    Cheyenne clasped her hands together behind her back. “I know all that, Jesse,” she said. “And believe it or not, I respect you for taking a stand. But I’ve got to try to change your mind, because it’s my job.”
    Jesse surprised her with another grin. Even standing at least ten feet from him, she felt the impact of it, and had to catch her breath. The feeling roughly corresponded to being French-kissed without warning.
    â€œI can’t say I’m averse to being persuaded,” he said. “As long as you understand that you don’t have a chance in the furthest corner of hell.” He climbed into the truck, spoke to her from behind the wheel. “Tell your brother and mother it was good to see them.”
    Cheyenne took a step toward him. “About saddling that horse for Mitch—”
    He held up a hand to stop the flow of words. “That,” he said, “is between Mitch and me.” With that, he closed the truck door, started the engine and backed out, waving once as he passed.
    Cheyenne stood rooted to that potholed parking lot, watching him drive away.
    Â 
    T HE NEXT MORNING , she was breaking in one of her new pairs of jeans and an old cotton shirt of her mother’s when Jesse pulled into the front yard, with a bunch of new lumber sticking out of the bed of his truck.
    Cheyenne had been clearing away debris since just after sunup, in an effort to make the place look halfway decent, but she was still waist-high in weeds. Sweat dampened her scalp and forehead, and her hair was coming down from the loose clip on top of her head.
    She sighed and tried to ignore the strange jubilation she felt.
    â€œMornin’,” Jesse said, climbing out of the pickup. He took off his hat, tossed it onto the passenger seat and approached.
    â€œWhat are you doing here?” Cheyenne asked, embarrassed by both her own appearance and that of the property.
    â€œJust a neighborly visit,” he answered and rounded the truck to begin unloading the lumber. “I brought a box of doughnuts, hoping you’d contribute the coffee.”
    Cheyenne approached. “What—?”
    â€œOkay, I admit it,” Jesse said with another shameless grin. “I cruised by the place last night, after I left you at the Roadhouse, and noticed you needed a ramp for Mitch’s wheelchair.”
    Cheyenne’s pride kicked in. “We have—”
    Jesse nodded toward the half-rotted boards stretching between the porch and the ground. “Recipe for disaster,” he said.
    â€œI appreciate your concern, but we really don’t need—”
    Ayanna came out onto the porch, dressed in jeans and the red cotton shirt provided by the supermarket. “Jesse,” she called. “What a nice surprise!”
    â€œYou’re supposed to be friendly to me, remember?” Jesse whispered, close—much too close—to Cheyenne’s ear. “Try to get on my good side, so I’ll sell you that five hundred acres?”
    â€œBut you don’t have any intention of doing that,” Cheyenne protested, whispering, too.
    â€œNo,” Jesse said, “I don’t. But l will enjoy your efforts at persuasion. You might start by taking the doughnuts inside, and giving up a cup of coffee. I take it black.”
    â€œThis is crazy!”
    â€œYeah,” Jesse grinned. “I don’t know what’s come over me.”
    Cheyenne gave up—at least temporarily—and went to the passenger side of the truck for the doughnuts. She and her mother bumped shoulders as they passed in the yard, Cheyenne on her way into the house, Ayanna