Chapter 17 Picking Apart Agritourism
“And who’s gonna babysit these city slickers?” Sierra knew the voice immediately and she felt herself bristle.
“Jack Palance has been dead almost twenty years.” Ryder’s familiar, maddening drawl cut through the morning air like a cold front. He stood at the entrance to the gazebo, arms crossed, his expression a mixture of mockery and a deep, weary patience. He looked as though he’d already put in a full day’s work, a stray piece of hay clinging to his worn denim shirt.
Sierra’s good mood evaporated. “Excuse me? I don’t remember inviting you to this meeting.”
“Heard voices. Nobody ever comes out here. Thought I’d see what was going on,” he said with a shrug, stepping inside. The gazebo suddenly felt a hundred times smaller. “And then, I heard a half-baked idea that’s going to get somebody hurt, or worse.”
“It’s not half-baked, it’s a brilliant marketing pivot,” she shot back, her posture stiffening.
“It’s a liability nightmare,” he countered, his gaze unflinching. “What happens when one of your ‘Golden Spur’ guests gets kicked by a horse because he doesn’t know the difference between its head and its tail? Who’s liable when a multi-millionaire CEO spooks a two-thousand-pound bull and it destroys his $150,000 Mercedes or a whole row of luxury cars? What about insurance? You think our current policy covers amateur cowboys playing make-believe?”
“We would have them sign waivers, of course,” she said, though the thought hadn’t actually occurred to her. “And we would hire trained professionals to supervise.”
“Who?” he scoffed. “Cody? Luis? The hands are stretched thin as it is. You can’t just throw a bunch of greenhorns into a working ranch and expect things to run smoothly. This isn’t a movie, Sierra. It’s a dangerous business for people who know what they’re doing. For tourists, it’s a death trap.”
“It’s a regulated, supervised, high-end adventure!” she insisted, her frustration mounting. He was doing it again, making her feel small, foolish, like a child playing dress-up in her father’s boots. “You’re just stuck in the past. You can’t see the potential because all you see is dust and dirt!”
“And all you see are dollar signs!” he fired back, his voice rising to match hers. “You don’t see the animals, the land, the respect for it. You want to turn your family’s legacy into a theme park!”
“My family’s legacy is about to be auctioned off on the courthouse steps!” she yelled, jumping to her feet. “This ‘theme park’ is the only thing that might save it! Look!”
In a flash of fury, she spun her laptop around to face him, stabbing a finger at the screen. “Look at these projections! This is based on a conservative occupancy rate and a mid-tier pricing model. This is real money, Ryder. Enough to pay off the bank and then some.”
He leaned in to look, his skepticism still etched on his face. The heat of his body radiated towards her, and she was instantly, unwillingly aware of the clean, earthy scent of him filling the small space. He bent closer to the screen, his shoulder brushing against her arm. The contact was brief, incidental, but it sent a white-hot jolt straight through her, sharp and startling as a cattle prod. Her breath caught in her throat.
To point out a specific line item on the spreadsheet, he reached out, his large, calloused hand hovering near hers over the trackpad. As his finger descended to tap the screen, the side of his index finger brushed against the back of her hand.
The world seemed to slow down. It was nothing. A fleeting, incidental touch. But it burned a trail across her skin, a tingling, electric current that shot up her arm and settled deep in her belly. Her carefully constructed arguments, her anger, her professional indignation dissolved into a confusing, humming warmth. She could feel the texture of his skin against hers, rough and warm, and for a wild, insane second, she had the urge to turn her hand over and lace her fingers with his.
He didn't seem to notice, or if he did, he gave no sign. He spoke in a tone much less animated and softer than before as he tapped the screen. "Your maintenance and insurance estimates are a little too low." He straightened up, breaking the contact, and the air rushed back into her lungs, cold and sharp. He took a step back, putting a crucial foot of distance between them. "It's your ranch. You can turn it into a dude ranch if you want." He looked from the laptop to her face, his gaze lingering for a fraction of a second too long. His eyes locked on hers, and he spoke just above a whisper. "Just be careful that you’ll be able to deliver what you promise without putting others at risk."
With that, he turned and walked away, leaving Sierra standing in the gazebo, her heart hammering against her ribs. Cody, sensing the sudden shift in atmospheric pressure, muttered something about checking on a horse and made a hasty exit on Ryder's heels.
Sierra was alone. She sank back onto the bench, staring at her hand, at the spot where he had touched her. The skin still tingled, a ghostly warmth that defied logic. Their argument had left her drained, but that touch had left her completely undone. If she didn't have a decade and a half of irritating memories of him teasing her mercilessly and chasing her like a little lost puppy, treating her like a fragile city doll, teaming up with her father against him, and representing this suffocating life she was so desperate to escape, she might…
With a shudder, she closed the laptop. The thought of what she might do if she had met Ryder for the very first time was too dangerous, too complicated to entertain.