“Emma, I seriously missed you all these years.” Trace leaned over to kiss her cheek.
“Sure could have fooled me, what with you staying gone so long.”
He said nothing to that, only pointed to Peyton with his fork before digging in.
Peyton stared at her own slightly less full plate and felt her appetite shrink. “We need to talk about the will.”
Trace’s easy grin slid off his face. “I don’t want to talk about that woman.”
That woman. Their mother.
“Well, we have to. She’s connected to the issue, although only indirectly, so don’t get your tighty whities in a knot. The gist is, Mama didn’t have a will. So the provisions in Daddy’s will slide on down. After Mama died, the ranch came to—”
“You.”
That’s what they’d all assumed, apparently. The only one of the three who’d stayed, who’d wanted it. But no. “Not quite. Actually, it’s a three-way split. You, me, and Bea.”
“Bea?” A pile of eggs plopped back onto his plate as Trace’s fork froze halfway to his mouth. “But she doesn’t even ride. She doesn’t even like to get dirty. She’s been to the barn, like, three times in her entire life.”
Peyton shook her head. “I know. Trust me, I know. But that’s just what it is.”
“So what does this mean?”
“Since I’m the only one who has any real interest in the ranch, I’ll keep doing what I’m doing. I’ve got some ideas to work our way out of the debt Mama dug us into. But it’s not going to be easy. And also . . .” She took a deep breath, then a sip from the coffee mug Emma sat next to her plate. “Also, you and Bea have equal say in all major decisions regarding the ranch.”
His fork clattered to the plate. “No shit.”
Emma’s hand shot out from nowhere and slapped the back of his head. “Language at the table.”
Trace rubbed his head and scowled. “Yes ma’am.”
Peyton snickered. She’d been on the receiving end of the manners lesson enough times to know Emma didn’t pull her punches. Didn’t matter if they were three or thirty-three. Emma ruled the kitchen, and most of the rest of the house, with an iron fist.
“I assume you talked to a lawyer about it.”
“I did. It’s legit.”
“Bea isn’t gonna have a clue what to do with this place.”
At that, Peyton scowled. “She doesn’t have to. She just has to agree with me.”
Trace grinned. “That holy terror? She’ll argue what color to paint the barn simply because she can. Causing problems just to watch the dust fly was always her favorite thing to do, you know that.”
“Thanks for the reminder,” she said dryly. “The good news is, if I need to run something by you two, I can just call you and Bea and get confirmation.” That reminded her . . . “Speaking of, not that I’m not glad to see your ugly mug. But you want to try again telling me exactly why you’re here?”
“Just taking a break. Every cowboy needs a little time to recoup.” He took a calm sip of coffee, as if he wasn’t hiding a damn thing. She wasn’t fooled one bit.
“You know eventually you’ll have to tell me.”
“Nothing to tell.”
“Uh huh. Well, after your break, you can rest assured that you won’t have to jot back here every so often for ranch business. I know you like to move around. So you don’t have to stay.”
“Yeah.” He picked up his mug. “Staying. About that—”
A muffled sound from up the stairs caught her ear, and she cocked her head. Trace started to speak, but she held up a hand. “What was that?”
It came again, sharper, louder, and completely unmistakable. The wail of a baby.
Peyton looked around wildly, then over at Emma.
The housekeeper didn’t bat an eye. Undoing her apron, she folded it on the counter and left the kitchen, saying, “I’ll get him.”
“Him?” Her eyes flew back to Trace. “Him who? What is going on? Whose baby is that?”
Her brother took another maddeningly calm sip of coffee. “That’d be mine.”
He was five shades of stupid. That’s the only reason he could think of to explain why he was listening to his gut again instead of his head. Clearly, his gut wasn’t up on the little problem he was having fighting a serious attraction to the current owner of the M-Star.
And yet there he was, pulling up to the first barn, all but asking to get kicked in the teeth. He’d waited around so long for his gut to change its mind that he’d missed Peyton’s forty-eight-hour cutoff. Not that he thought she’d really hold him to it. But she’d give him hell just the same, because she could.