Cowboy Crazy - By Joanne Kennedy Page 0,1

in freeing himself from what he considered his family’s money-grubbing, oil-soaked legacy, and trading his company shares for control of the family ranch was the next. He’d sworn to himself that the former Carrigan Ranch—now the LT Ranch—would be the one stretch of Wyoming untouched by the oil industry. No bobbing oil rigs, no transmission lines scarring the hillsides.

“I’m wondering how you reconcile raising organic, grass-fed beef with the upcoming energy development on the ranch,” she said.

“I don’t. There is no energy development on the ranch.” He slid his thumbs into his belt loops and grinned. “Though I suppose you could call raising Grade A beef developing energy.”

Nudging her stylish half-glasses down to the end of her nose, the reporter whipped out a sheaf of notes. “It says here the production plan for the Carrigan ranch calls for fourteen wells. Estimated output will be ten to fifty barrels per day.”

“On the ranch?” He swallowed a whole lot of cuss words they probably didn’t allow on TV. His mind was going a million miles an hour, trying to figure out what was going on and screaming shit, shit, shit. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t, over and over.

He and Eric competed for everything. That’s why they’d split things up—so they wouldn’t be stepping on each other all the time. But though Lane was in charge of the ranch, the company still owned the mineral rights. If Eric was planning to exercise those rights, he wasn’t just stepping on Lane’s toes. He was stomping all over them.

The reporter was still smiling expectantly. Lane edged toward the exit but she followed, trotting alongside him, holding the microphone like she was trying to get him to eat the damn thing.

When in doubt, a Carrigan always had one line to fall back on, and this seemed like the perfect time to use it. “No comment, ma’am.”

She narrowed her eyes, sensing his confusion and homing in on it like a coyote sniffing out a weakened calf. “Were you unaware of your brother’s plans?”

She cocked her head to one side, her smile fading into an expression of concern that would have made his leg ache a little less if there’d been a shred of sincerity in it. He turned away, but the woman dodged around him like a square dancer executing a slick do-si-do.

“You’re the face of Carrigan Oil, yet you’re left out of the loop.” She was on a roll now, unearthing a real story, and the hand holding the microphone shook just the slightest bit as she suppressed her excitement. “Does this make you realize how other landowners feel when they fear Carrigan will exercise their mineral rights without regard to family ranching legacies? Does it make you sympathize with the little guys?”

“I’ve always sympathized with them,” Lane said.

What was she going to do next—get out a stick and poke him in the side? He knew she was manipulating him, but the anger roiling in his gut was rising, spilling into his brain. The implication that his wealth made him different from his fellow ranchers always annoyed him.

Besides, he’d expected his brother to keep his money-grubbing hands to himself. It had been an unspoken agreement, a point of honor—the kind of thing their father would have respected. But while he’d been off riding bulls, Eric had apparently been making plans.

He dredged up the Carrigan grin again. If his brother’s betrayal hurt, he sure as hell wasn’t going to let it show. Lane Carrigan didn’t get hurt. Not by bulls, not by women, not even by family. He was the definition of cowboy tough.

And he always fought back.

In this case, the weapon he needed was right in front of him. The public viewed oil company CEOs as cartoon villains to rival Lex Luthor. If there was one thing Eric couldn’t deal with, it was bad publicity.

The reporter edged closer, again sensing the tension in the air. Maybe she wasn’t a rookie after all. She had the slick, self-conscious presence of Katie Couric or Ann Curry. He glanced down at the microphone. CBS.

He smiled. This was national media. Anything he said was liable to hit the ten o’clock news in a matter of hours.

He probably should think about what he was going to say. He should go back to his trailer and come up with a formal, carefully constructed statement.

But that wouldn’t be any fun.

“You know, I’m used to those bulls being out to get me,” he said. “I guess my brother’s not much different.”

The reporter nodded eagerly.

“He’ll tell