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Chapter 6: Jennifer

Having finished the piles on the desk (and on top of the filing cabinet and in corners, lurking like monsters in a nightmare), Jennifer had moved on to the inside of the filing cabinet.

It wasn't a typical metal filing cabinet, but rather a beat-up wooden relic with rows of drawers, all neatly labeled in the same spiky handwriting that she'd found on a few papers scattered around. In contrast, most of the papers piled on the desk had been in a blocky handwriting, and Jennifer had spent the afternoon idly trying to figure out which handwriting was the father's, and which one was the son's.

She pulled a cabinet drawer open and found file folders, neatly labeled by year, tabs marching through the drawer like soldiers, and instantly knew that this settled it – the son's handwriting was the blocky one. All of the file folders in here had the spiky handwriting on it, and Jennifer was willing to bet next year's salary on the fact that Stetson wouldn't take the time to organize file folders if his life depended on it.

So when the father was alive, he filed and organized, and then once he died and Stetson took over, all of that stopped? Not surprising. The man she'd met that morning didn't give a rat's ass about paperwork or bills or filing, of that she was sure. Of course he'd let his paperwork fall into disarray, and then blame the bank for the mess he'd found himself in.

Men.

She started to reach for the first file folder in the drawer when she glanced up at the elk clock on the wall, the bull's head thrown back as it bugled to the world, a 2 on the tip of its nose. Huh. It's almost five. If I get started in on another project, I'll be here hours past when I should be, and God only knows, the bank doesn't pay overtime. Plus, Mr. Miller was quite clear on my work schedule this morning.

She shoved the drawer closed instead. She could get started on this phase of the excavation tomorrow morning. That would be soon enough. She began gathering up her laptop bag and notepad when her phone started singing out Working Overtime.

With a groan, she grabbed her iPhone and swiped to answer. "This is Jennifer Kendall," she said in her most professional tone of voice. It was how her boss wanted her to answer the phone, even though he damn well knew who she was.

Just one of his many idiosyncrasies.

"How shhhhsirifks ldislkds," her boss' voice chirped in her ear.

"Hold on, Greg, let me get somewhere with better reception." Jennifer hurried through the farmhouse and out onto the covered porch that stretched the length of the house.

"Can you hear me now?" Jennifer asked, feeling distinctly like she was starring in a Verizon Wireless commercial even as she said it.

"There you are. What took you so long?" Greg sounded annoyed, but then again, everything annoyed him.

"Sorry, I'm way out in the sticks. The signal isn't very good; I had to go outside."

"Whatever, just don't leave me waiting like that again," Greg huffed on the other end of the call. "Are you making progress?"

"Yes?" she said, more of a question than a statement. "I mean, I got through the piles on the desk today. I'll get to work on the filing cabi - "

"I don't need a play-by-play of your workday," Greg said, cutting her off. "I just need to know if they have the money. The Millers. Are they going to bring their loan current?"

"There's only one Miller who still lives here, first of all, and second, I have no idea. Like I said, I haven't even touched the filing cabinet yet and there's a lot - "

"I want results, not excuses!" Greg interrupted. Again. Jennifer bit down on the inside of her cheek. Hard. There were days...

"Give me a few more days and I can give you more information," she said politely but firmly.

"I want a status report at noon tomorrow." And with that, he hung up.

Jennifer stared down at her phone in shock. Even for Greg, he was being inordinately pushy and difficult. He usually didn't hound her for a status report on an audit until she'd been there for a few days. He'd been in the foreclosure department of the Intermountain West Bank & Loan for longer than she had. He knew what he was asking for was impossible, so why the bee up his bonnet?

There was something not quite right here...

She heard the rumble of a diesel engine and looked up to see Mr. Miller pull up in front of the house, giant tires crunching on the gravel driveway, and then he hopped out, leaning back in to grab something. Unbidden, her eyes followed his legs up to the curve of his ass, his Wranglers cupping it just so – damn, I can't breathe – and then he straightened up, his hands full of...dirty laundry?

He sauntered towards the house in that loose-hipped swagger that all cowboys seemed to naturally take on at birth, up the two steps and onto the covered porch. With a nod of greeting, he shoved the rags underneath his arm to free up a hand to get the screen and front door open, and then stood back, allowing her to pass by him and into the house.

She headed back down to the office to grab her stuff, and she could swear she could feel his eyes on her ass every step of the way. Which was ridiculous, of course. He thought she was some awful creature, come to steal his farm from him. He certainly wasn't checking her out.

Just like she hadn't been checking out his ass. She'd just been studying the fashion trends in Wrangler jeans.

Which was a totally different thing.

She finished shoving her stuff into her bag, slinging it over her shoulder with a grunt at the weight. Someday, she was going to be able to afford a Mac laptop again, instead of these oversized bricks HP liked to call laptops.

She headed out into the hallway, where she promptly slammed right into Mr. Miller, who'd been heading...well, somewhere else. And now his hand was on her elbow and he was standing in front of her and looking down at her and she couldn't breathe again and...

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