The Rancher takes his Runaway Bride

Chapter One “But how can you be sure the beans came from Caldas, Columbia?” Lana Hunt leaned over the counter, pinning the man with what she called her penetrative gaze. That stern gaze that told the other person that she saw more than they wanted her to was one of the skills needed to be an investigative journalist. There was a fine art to questioning a source, getting them to divulge information without them realizing they were—well—spilling the beans. When it came to information exchange, it was all about asking the right question. For example, a reporter never asked a closed-ended question like Are these Arabica beans? The interviewee could simply answer Yes or No, and the communication channels would close. It was best to use an open form of questioning that began with something like Tell me about these beans. Or, Can you relay how you came into possession of these particular beans? That way, the responder would feel obliged to divulge not only their knowledge but their opinion and feelings, too. “Another question,” Lana said before the bewildered barista could answer the first question. Lana leaned over the counter, twisting the ring on her finger. The pad of her thumb pushed the small diamond around until it was at the back. Mac said she always did that when she was thinking things over. Lana doubted her fiancé’s observation. She hadn’t worn the ring long enough to form any habits. It had only been three months since Mac had slid it on her left hand, his brown eyes shining in triumph. The young man standing behind the counter did not look triumphant as he gaped at Lana. Sweat trickled down his splotchy, side-burned face, and his man bun drooped. Clearly, he was feeling the pressure because he wouldn’t quite meet her gaze. He stared, instead, over her shoulder. Great. She was close to cracking him. Lana placed both her hands on the counter and c****d her head as she went in for the kill. Dogged determination was yet another hallmark of the investigative journalist. “I happen to know that true Arabica beans are a deep reddish-purple and smell sweet like jasmine flowers.” Research skills were another hallmark of investigative reporting. Lana had studied her material. She inhaled, ready to fire her next missive when she smelled a delicate, flowery smell. Like jasmine. She glanced down at the dark, nearly purple beans. “All's I know is what it says on the packaging,” said the side-burned barista. Lana looked behind the counter to see an industrial-sized brown container with the words Arabica Beans printed on the side. As far as facts went, that one was hard to argue with. “Come on, lady,” called a disgruntled voice behind her. “Take your order and go. Some of us have to get to work.” Lana tapped her credit card on the coffee shop’s machine. She declined when it asked if she wanted to leave a tip. Since the barista hadn’t given her a tip she might’ve used to create a news story for her job, she wouldn’t return the favor of tipping him for his. Grabbing hold of the tray of coffees, Lana made her way out of the mom and pop coffee shop and into the warm air. She noticed the world all around her. She might not have gotten what she needed for an exposé on coffee shops passing off inferior beans. But there were still potential stories all around her, all just waiting to be told. A man walked out of a bank with a locked briefcase clutched in his hand. He looked left, right, and then clutched the satchel tighter. What, Lana wondered, could he be hiding in the bowels of that case? A young mother pushed a stroller toward the park. She paused to allow a fit jogger to pass her. But when the young, athletic man did, she craned her neck over her shoulder to get a view of him passing. Could there be trouble at home, Lana wondered? Unfortunately, those potential stories would have to wait a little longer because Lana was late for work. She dashed into her car, settling the coffee into the passenger seat. Ten minutes later, with one minute to spare, she was riding the elevator up to the third floor of ChatterZine. People bustled about inside of the online magazine. The red ink flowed down white sheets of paper as copy was edited. The slicing sound of scissors cut through the air as images were pasted and rearranged for the layout. Interns scuttled and scurried about checking facts, running copies, and getting coffee for their assigned reporters. With aromatic coffee in hand, Lana made her way to ChatterZine’s Editor in Chief’s office. Reyanna Murphy didn’t raise her head when Lana opened the door. Not until the swirling tendrils of warm coffee rose in the air and tickled her nose. “Arabica beans?” Lana nodded. “I checked the sources myself.” Reyanna took a healthy gulp. The brown skin of her throat that matched the beans she loved worked as she took in the warm nectar that she worshipped. “Thanks, kid.” Lana wasn’t a kid. She was twenty-two. But she didn’t check her boss’s facts. Initiative was another highly prized skill for an investigative reporter. She just needed Reyanna to take a glance away from the energizing morning brew and see the same fire in her intern. “Did you finish fact-checking Nichols’s story?” asked Reyanna after another sip. “I finished last night.” It had taken Lana into the evening, well after she should’ve left the office and gone home. There had been a lot of errors in Nichols’s story; factual and grammatical. Lana had practically rewritten the story before she turned it in. She wanted to tell Reyanna that, but Lana suspected the woman knew. So, why hadn’t Reyanna given Lana her own story to write instead of another’s to rewrite? “Andrew Rucker is out again.” Reyanna sighed as she gripped her coffee to her chest. “I hope it’s nothing serious.” Lana knew full well that the man was likely sleeping off yet another night of illicit delights. “I’m trying to find something to fill his section.” Another part of investigative journalism was being cutthroat. This was it. This was her chance. “I have an idea for a story.” Reyanna studied her over the rim of her coffee cup. “Your fact-checking has been stellar. I’ve noticed both Nichols’s and Rucker’s stories have been… tighter.” Lana smiled demurely, admitting nothing. “Yes.” Reyanna gave a decisive nod. “I think you can handle this story.” Inwardly, Lana jumped up and down. Outwardly, she took a seat across from her boss. She set her mind to determine which story to pitch. An exposé on coffee shops might pique Reyanna’s interest, but Lana had no angle. Maybe an investigation into the security of briefcases. Or an exploration of the satisfaction of today’s young mothers in the roles as homemaker and wife. “There’s this woman in the next town over,” Reyanna started. “She has twenty cats and—” “Don’t tell me,” Lana said, taking out the pen she always tucked into her hair and the notepad that was always in her back pocket. “Animal control is on her?” “No,” said Reyanna. “She makes the cats costumes.” “Oh, I see. So, it’s an animal cruelty angle.” “No, Lana. It’s a fluff piece about a woman with cats who puts them in funny costumes.” Lana’s pen lowered. She sat the blank notepad down on her lap as she struggled to understand the straight lines of the story. “I want you to go and ask some basic questions, take pictures—lots of pictures. Everyone loves a cat photo.” A fluff piece about cats in costumes? Not an exposé on code violations or a treatise on the plight of today’s aging, single woman. Or even a statement piece on how modern feminism is owning a cat. “Can you handle that?” asked Reyanna. “Yes.” Lana cleared her throat. “Yes, I can.” “Excellent. You can go and interview her on Friday.” “This Friday?” Lana shifted the pen in her hand and twisted the ring on her finger. The diamond met with the ink of the pen. “Yes, we need the story for the weekend edition.” “This weekend?” Lana twisted the ring the other way, this time meeting the edge of the notepad in her lap. Reyanna lifted her gaze. “Is there a problem?” Lana moved the ring up and down, toward her knuckle and then back all the way down. Yes, there was a problem. She had a bit of a family obligation this Saturday. “No.” With one final press of her thumb, Lana shoved the ring firmly back in place. “There’s no problem. I just have this family thing. But I can probably wiggle out of it. Or get them to push it back.” “Good. I’m counting on you.” Mac was not going to be happy. But he loved her. Enough to marry her. They were going to spend the rest of their lives together. He couldn’t get mad if she wanted to push the start of that forever back by one weekend. Not when it meant she would get a step closer to her dream job.