Bodine expected another meeting soon about buying the last fifty acres, and as she drove she weighed whether that parcel would work better for the ranch or resort.
Fix up the house, she mused, rent it to groups. Or for events. Smaller weddings, corporate parties, family reunion s.
Or save that time and expense, tear it down, build from there.
She entertained herself with possibilities as she drove under the arching Bodine Resort sign with its shamrock logo.
She circled around, noting the lights on in the Trading Post as whoever caught the first shift prepared to open for the day. They had a trunk show this week with leather goods and crafts, and that would lure in some of the late-fall guests. Or with Rory’s teams’ marketing blast, draw in non-guests who’d stay for lunch at the Feed Bag.
She pulled up in front of the long, low building with its wide front porch that housed reception.
It always made her proud.
The resort was born before she was, at a gathering with her mother, her grandmother, and her great-grandmother—with her grandmother, Cora Riley Bodine, driving the train.
What had started as a bare-bones dude ranch had grown into a luxury resort that offered five-star cuisine, personalized service, adventure, pampering, events, entertainment, and more, all spread over more than thirty thousand acres, including the working ranch. And all, she thought as she got out of the truck, with the priceless beauty of western Montana.
She hurried inside, where a couple of guests were enjoying coffee in front of the massive, roaring fire.
She caught the fall scents of pumpkin and cloves, approved as she waved a hand toward the desk, intent on reaching her office and getting organized. Detoured to the desk when Sal, the perky redhead Bodine had known since grade school, signaled her.
“Wanted you to know Linda-Sue just called to say she’d be a little late.”
“She always is.”
“Yeah, but this time she’s saying it instead of just being it. She’s going by to pick up her mother.”
The solid foundation of Bodine’s day suffered its first crack. “Her mother’s coming to the meeting?”
“Sorry.” Sal offered a sorrowful smile.
“That’s mostly Jessie’s problem, but thanks for the heads-up.”
“Jessie’s not in yet.”
“That’s all right, I’m early for the meeting.”
“You always are,” Sal called out as Bodine veered off, taking the turn that led back to the resort manager’s office. Her office.
She liked the size of it. Big enough to hold meetings with staff or managers, small enough to keep those meetings intimate and personal.
She had a double window looking out on stone paths, a portion of the building that held the Feed Bag and the more exclusive Dining Hall, and fields rolling toward the mountains.
She had deliberately arranged her grandmother’s old desk with her back to that window, avoiding distractions. She had two high-backed leather chairs that had once graced the office in the ranch house, and a small sofa—once her mother’s and now reupholstered with a sturdy weave in a strong summer blue.
She hung her coat, hat, and scarf on the coatrack in the corner, smoothed a hand over her hair—black as her father’s, worn in a long, straight tail down her back.
She had the look of her grandfather—so his widow always said. Bodine had seen photographs, and acknowledged her resemblance to the young, doomed Rory Bodine, who’d died in Vietnam before his twenty-third birthday.
He’d had bold green eyes and a wide, top-heavy mouth. His black hair had had a wave to it while hers ran ruler straight, but she had his high cheekbones, his small, pugnacious nose, and the white Irish skin that required oceans of sunscreen.
But she liked to think she’d inherited her grandmother’s canny business sense.
She went to the counter that held the pod machine that made tolerable coffee, took a mug to her desk to go over her notes for her first two meetings of the day.
As she finished up a phone call and an e-mail simultaneously, Jessica came in.
Like Maureen, Jessie wore a dress—a sharp red in this case, paired with a short leather jacket the color of top cream. The short, high-heeled boots wouldn’t last five minutes in the snow, but they matched the red dress as if they’d been dyed in the same batch.
Bodine had to admire the slick, unassailable style.
Jessica wore her streaked blond hair pulled back in a sleek coil as she often did on workdays. Like the boots, her lips matched the dress perfectly and suited her slashing cheekbones, her slim, straight nose, and her eyes of clear, glacier blue.
She sat as Bodine finished the call, taking her own phone out of her jacket pocket and scrolling through something.